Made in Turkey: Studies in Popular Music [1 ed.] 1138789283, 9781138789289

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Made in Turkey

Made in Turkey: Studies in Popular Music serves as a comprehensive and thorough introduction to the history, sociology, and musicology of Turkish popular music. The volume consists of essays by leading scholars of Turkish music, and covers the major figures, styles, and social contexts of popular music in Turkey. Each essay provides adequate context so readers understand why the figure or genre under discussion is of lasting significance to Turkish popular music. The book first presents a general description of the history and background of popular music in Turkey, followed by essays that are organized into thematic sections: Histories, Politics, Ethnicities, and Genres. Ali C. Gedik is Associate Professor of Musicology at Dokuz Eylül University. He is the co-founder and sciences editor of the Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies, the president of the Society of Interdisciplinary Musicology, the secretary of the IASPM-Turkey branch, and the editor of the book Bilim Üzerine Marksist Tartışmalar: Marksizm ve İki Kültür (2015).

Routledge Global Popular Music Series Series Editors: Franco Fabbri, University of Huddersfield, UK and Goffredo Plastino, Newcastle University, UK

The Routledge Global Popular Music Series provides popular music scholars, teachers, students, and musicologists with a well-informed and up-to-date introduction to different world popular music scenes. The series of volumes can be used for academic teaching in popular music studies, or as a collection of reference works. Written by those living and working in the countries about which they write, this series is devoted to popular music largely unknown to Anglo-American readers. Made in Italy: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Franco Fabbri and Goffredo Plastino Made in Japan: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Tōru Mitsui Made in Brazil: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Martha Tupinambá de Ulhôa, Cláudia Azevedo and Felipe Trotta Made in Latin America: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Julio Mendívil and Christian Spencer Espinosa Made in Korea: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Hyunjoon Shin and Seung-Ah Lee Made in Sweden: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Alf Björnberg and Thomas Bossius Made in Hungary: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Emília Barna and Tamás Tófalvy Made in France: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Gérôme Guibert and Catherine Rudent Made in the Low Countries: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Lutgard Mutsaers and Gert Keunen Made in Turkey: Studies in Popular Music Edited by Ali C. Gedik

Made in Turkey Studies in Popular Music

Edited by

Ali C. Gedik

First published 2018 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Taylor & Francis The right of Ali C. Gedik to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Names: Gedik, Ali C., editor. Title: Made in Turkey: studies in popular music/edited by Ali C. Gedik. Description: New York; London: Routledge, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017027849 | ISBN 9781138789289 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Popular music—Turkey—History and criticism. Classification: LCC ML3502.T9 M34 2017 | DDC 781.6309561—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017027849 ISBN: 978-1-138-78928-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-76499-3 (ebk) Typeset in Minion Pro by Florence Production Ltd, Stoodleigh, Devon, UK

Dedicated to my wife Mesude . . .

Contents

List of Illustrations Series Foreword Preface Acknowledgments Introduction: Struggling with and Discussing a “Republic” through Popular Music

ix xi xiii xix

1

ALI C. GEDIK

Part I: Histories 1

Legacies, Continuities, and Breaks: Musical Entertainment in the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires and the Republic of Turkey

21 23

VOLKAN AYTAR

2

Entertainment Spaces, Genres, and Repertoires in Ottoman Musical Life

35

Ş. ŞEHVAR BEŞIROĞLU AND GONCA GIRGIN

3

A Topography of Changing Tastes: The 12-Tone Equal-Tempered System and the Modernization of Turkish Music

53

ALI ERGUR

4

Music Reform in Turkey: On the Failures and Successes of Inventing National Songs

63

ÖZGÜR BALKILIÇ

Part II: Politics 5

The Golden Microphone as a Moment of Hegemony

73 75

LEVENT ERGUN

6

Class Struggle in Popular Musics of Turkey: Changing Sounds from the Left ALI C. GEDIK

89

viii • Contents

7

The Glocality of Islamic Popular Music: The Turkish Case

107

AYHAN EROL

8

Politics of World Music: The Case of Sufi Music in Turkey

119

KORAY DEĞIRMENCI

Part III: Ethnicities 9

Ethnic Spaces and Multiculturalism Debates on Popular Music of Turkey

131 133

BURCU YILDIZ

10

Kurdish Popular Music in Turkey

149

OZAN AKSOY

11

Romanistanbul: City, Music, and a Transformation Story

167

ÖZGÜR AKGÜL

Part IV: Genres 12

Arabesk: Looking at the History of Popular Meanings and Feelings in Turkey

177 179

BETÜL YARAR

13

The Rise of a Folk Instrument in Turkish Popular Music: The Mey

193

SONGÜL KARAHASANOĞLU

14

Global Connectivity and the Izmir Extreme-Metal Scene

207

AYKUT ÇEREZCIOĞLU

Coda

219

15

221

Turkish Popular Music in Global Perspective MARTIN STOKES

Afterword—Days of Anatolian Pop: A Conversation with Cahit Berkay

231

TAYFUN BILGIN

A Selected Bibliography of Turkish Popular Music Notes on Contributors Index

243 249 253

Illustrations

Figures 1.1 10.1 10.2 10.3 10.4 10.5 10.6 10.7 10.8 13.1 13.2 13.3 13.4

Balo Gazetesi (Ballroom Gazette) in 1941 Album Cover of Aynur’s Hevra (Together), Sony Music Classical, 2014 Album Cover of Serhado’s Bıhuşta Xeyalan, Kom Müzik, 2013 Album Cover of Berfîn Mamedova’s Koçber, Kom Müzik, 2014 Album Cover of Hîvron’s Mem û Zîn/Welat, Kom Müzik, 2013 Album Cover of Rojda’s Kezî-Stranên Dengbejê Jin, Kom Müzik, 2014 Album Cover of Diyar’s Dema Azadî, Kom Müzik, 2013 Album Cover of Rêzan Şîrvan’s Ji Te Dur Im, Aydın Müzik, 2014 Album Cover of Mem Ararat’s Quling, Ewr û Baran, Kom Müzik, 2013 The Mey The Mey, the Duduk, and the Balaban The Mey, the Duduk, and the Balaban The Meys in Diatonic Sets

29 155 156 157 158 159 161 162 164 194 196 197 202

Tables 2.1 2.2 2.3

Daily Festive Events Daily Entertainments and Festivals Genres in Festive Events

38 39 43

Series Foreword

Popular music studies have progressed from the initial focus on methodologies to exploring a variety of genres, scenes, works, and performers. British and North-American music have been privileged and studied first, not only for their geographic and generational proximity to scholars, but also for their tremendous impact. Everything else has been often relegated to the dubious “world music” category, with a “folk” (or “roots”, or “authentic”) label attached. However, world popular music is no less popular than rock ’n’ roll, R&B, disco, rap, singer-songwriters, punk, grunge, brit-pop, or nu-gaze. It is no less full of history and passion, no less danceable, socially relevant, and commercialized. Argentinian tango, Brazilian bossa nova, Mexican reggaeton, Cuban son and timba, Spanish and Latin American cantautores, French auteurs-compositeurs-interprètes, Italian cantautori and electronic dance music, J-pop, German cosmic music and Schlager, Neapolitan Song, Greek entechno, Algerian raï, Ghanaian highlife, Portuguese fado, Nigerian jùjú, Egyptian and Lebanese Arabic pop, Israeli mizrahit, Indian filmi are just a few examples of locally and transnationally successful genres that, with millions of records sold, are an immensely precious key to understand different cultures, societies and economies. More than in the past there is now a widespread awareness of the “other” popular music: however, we still lack access to the original sources, or to texts to rely on. The Routledge Global Popular Music Series has been devised to offer to scholars, teachers, students and general readers worldwide a direct access to scenes, works and performers that have been mostly not much or at all considered in the current literature, and at the same time to provide a better understanding of the different approaches in the field of non-Anglophone scholarship. Uncovering the wealth of studies flourishing in so many countries, inaccessible to those who do not speak the local language, is by now no less urgent than considering the music itself. The Series website (www.globalpopularmusic.net) includes hundreds of audiovisual examples which complement the volumes. The interaction with the website is intended to give a well-informed introduction to the world’s popular music from entirely new perspectives, and at the same time to provide updated resources for the academic teaching.

xii • Series Foreword

Routledge Global Popular Music Series ultimately aims at establishing a truly international arena for a democratic musicology, through authoritative and accessible books. We hope that our work will help the creation of a different polyphony of critical approaches, and that you will enjoy listening to and being part of it. Franco Fabbri University of Huddersfield, UK Goffredo Plastino Newcastle University, UK Series Editors

Preface In Memory of Prof. Şehvar Beşiroğlu (2 October 1965—26 May 2017)

One of the foremost Ottoman historians, Donald Quataert (2005), begins his seminal book on the Ottoman Empire by asking the question “Why study Ottoman history?” His answers are mainly intended for an audience from the West European cultural tradition. Therefore, Quataert lists Ottoman contributions in shaping European history and culture: political thinkers such as Montesquieu and Machiavelli, who were inspired by Ottoman administration; the coffee and tulips Europeans enjoyed; or the smallpox inoculations that protected their lives; the contributions of Janissary bands to the percussion sections of European classical music orchestras; and even the baton of drum majorettes in the United States; and the Turkomania of late eighteenth century Europe. In summary, Quataert discusses reflections of Ottoman culture in almost all parts of European popular culture, from poetry to novels, fashion to home design, musical instruments to repertoires, and paintings to religion. Quataert (2005, 10) notes that even motion-picture theaters were heavily inspired by Ottoman architecture in New York and other big cities of the United States. Of course, I would not pose such a question about the study of popular music in Turkey. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that Neo-Ottomanism, as the foreign policy of Turkey’s Islamist government in recent years, not only has resulted in the involvement of Turkey in civil wars in North Africa and the Middle East by supporting radical Islamist movements, but also in an increased interest in the popular culture and thus popular music of Turkey, especially in these regions. This Neo-Ottomanism was directly reflected in soap operas such as Magnificient Suleyman, about the powerful Ottoman emperor of the same name. Multiculturalism was also an important ideological dimension of domestic policies of the government in accordance with its Neo-Ottomanism, and coincided with rising world music practices in Turkey, which resulted in an increasing interest towards Turkey, in turn. Furthermore, one and a half million Turkish citizens, including around hundred thousands of Kurds, form the largest minority in Germany as a result of immigration of workers during the second half of the 1960s. Therefore, not only popular music in Turkey but also popular musics in Germany is performed by musicians from Turkey, as well. Of course, Turkish immigrants are not limited to Germany, and thus similar experiences can be seen to varying degrees in any country of Europe or North America.

xiv • Preface

Thus it seems that Turkey’s popular culture has become globally more visible in recent years either thanks to popular figures from Turkey or to immigrants originating from Turkey. The international successes of film directors like Ferzan Özpetek from Italy and Fatih Akın from Germany, the Palme d’Or won by Nuri Bilge Ceylan at Cannes in 2004, the Nobel Prize for Literature won by Orhan Pamuk in 2006, Turkey’s third place in the football World Cup of 2002, the UEFA Super Cup won by Galatasaray in 2000, the international successes of jazz musicians Aydın Esen and İlhan Erşahin, and the pianist and composer Fazıl Say, and the Eurovision Song Contest won by Sertap Erener in 2003, are foremost examples of this trend. There were also notable musical precursors: Atlantic Records was founded by Ahmet Ertegün, son of the Turkish ambassador, with Herb Abramson in 1947 in New York. Two other Turkish names, Nesuhi Ertegün and Arif Mardin joined the company soon after, and they together recorded and produced some of the top musicians of gospel, jazz, and R&B, like The Delta Rhythm Boys, Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughan, Mary Lou Williams, Sidney Bechet, Django Reinhardt, Ray Charles, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, and Modern Jazz Quartet. The company began to collaborate with American and British rock and soul artists at the end of the 1960s, like Aretha Franklin, Led Zeppelin, and Roberta Flack. As a producer, Arif Mardin won 11 Grammys and worked with Bette Midler, Barbra Streisand, The Bee Gees, Diana Ross, Queen, Aretha Franklin, Phil Collins, Roberta Flack, Norah Jones, Chaka Khan, George Benson, Manhattan Transfer, Modern Jazz Quartet, and David Bowie. Meanwhile, the Turkish singer Dario Moreno became internationally acclaimed during the 1950s and 1960s, especially in France where he also acted in many popular films. Jazz trumpetist Muvaffak “Maffy” Falay toured Europe with famous jazz orchestras such as The Kenny Clarke–Francy Boland Big Band and the Quincy Jones Orchestra, after he was discovered by Dizzy Gillespie in Turkey. Jazz saxophonist and flute player İsmet Sıral taught between 1978 and 1980 at The Creative Music Foundation, which was founded by Karl Berger, Ingrid Sertso, and Ornette Coleman in New York City. Bülent Arel and İlhan Mimaroğlu were two leading composers of electronic music in the United States. Mimaroğlu also collaborated with Freddie Hubbard and Charles Mingus, and composed the soundtrack for Fellini’s Satyricon. However, this book is not about such international manifestations of Turkish culture. Rather, it examines practices of popular music in Turkey mainly made for a domestic public but in the context of mutual relationships between local and global processes. Therefore, emic perspectives on the issues should be differently revealing than the studies of scholars from abroad. This could be considered as a chance to balance etic perspectives in the studies of colleagues from abroad. However, the theoretical approaches of these chapters will be familiar to scholars from abroad. Antonio Gramsci, Max Weber, George Simmel, Stuart Hall, Arjun Appadurai, John Tomlison, Gilles Deleuze, Felix Guattari, Bop Jessop, Ellen Meiksins Wood, Roland Robertson, Lawrence Grossberg are some of the names whose theoretical works inform this book. The content of this book also presents a unique collection with contributions covering a wide historical period, from the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires to the Republican era and up to recent times, and a wide range of popular music practices, from the kanto of

Preface • xv

the Ottoman era to mainstream popular music from Europe and the US in the Republican era, and from influences of traditional art and folk music in popular music, including arabesk. It is unique also in the sense that such a comprehensive collection does not even exist in Turkish. While colleagues mainly with a background in musicology and ethnomusicology contributed to this volume, almost one third of the book is written by colleagues with a background in sociology. In any case, each chapter reflects the interdisciplinary nature of popular culture and popular music studies. Each section focuses on a different topic with distinct approaches but within the same overall theme. Therefore, the titles of each section, Histories, Politics, Ethnicities, and Genres, reflect such thematic categorization and plurality of approaches. Since each section is summarized in chapter introductions, I would like to mention two final contributions under the titles Coda and Afterword. Martin Stokes presents a cosmopolitan perspective on Turkish popular music in his chapter “Turkish Popular Music in Global Perspective” as the coda of our book. Stokes discusses some key issues of Turkish popular music especially from 1980 when, as an “outsider,” he started his fieldwork, continuing through the 1990s and 2000s. He proposed applying a cosmopolitan perspective instead of scientific detachment and an “outsider’s perspective” in order to understand popular music in Turkey. This chapter presents an example of this approach in its discussion of key figures and genres in popular music practice of Turkey. The final chapter of the book, “Days of Anatolian Pop: A Conversation with Cahit Berkay,” presents an interview by Tayfun Bilgin with Cahit Berkay, one of the living legends of Turkish popular music. Berkay was one of the founders of the Anatolian pop group, Moğollar, and a prominent film music composer. He answers Tayfun Bilgin’s questions, which highlight crucial topics of popular music in Turkey. This contribution of Cahit Berkay—still active both in Moğollar and in the film industry—presents a first-hand witness of a long period in popular music between the 1960s and recent times. The planning of Made in Turkey began in 2012. Since then, several political events, some related to popular music, took place in Turkey. Around 10 million people rose against the government from almost all of Turkey during 70 days in the summer of 2013. Although the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, AKP) came to power in 2002 with emphatic promises of democratization for the country, its Islamo-fascist character was revealed by the early 2010s as a result of its harsh neoliberalism and Islamization. The uprising was sparked in June 2013 by the simple issue of protecting the trees of Gezi Park next to Taksim Square, Istanbul, against being chopped down to make room for a construction project. Around 10 young people were killed and dozens of people lost their eyes and around 10,000 of them were seriously injured by tear-gas canisters and plastic bullets targeted at demonstrators by the police. Music was an important part of the uprising. Therefore, musicians, music students and scholars were at the receiving end of state violence. Thanks to IASPM, a declaration of support, drafted by myself and finished by Ayhan Erol as executive of IASPM’s Turkish branch, was published with the title, “Declaration of support from popular music scholars in relation to the current demonstrations in Turkey: Resistance of music against the

xvi • Preface

authoritarian discourse and implementation of the government in Turkey.” This declaration summarizes the role of music in the demonstrations:1 The music performed by the people of Turkey with pots, pans and whistles is an important part of the current demonstrations against various aspects of Turkey’s Justice and Development Party (AKP) government. There are a variety of grievances such as the authoritarian approach of the government, its perceived Islamic bias in making laws and making changes to society, and its heavyhanded approach to the demonstrations including the physical attacks and arrests of peaceful demonstrators. The people of Turkey performing with pots, pans and whistles, as well as musicians including our colleagues and students, are in the streets all day and night, and many of them are being arrested and injured by police forces acting on behalf of AKP. All kinds of music, such as jazz, folk, classical, traditional and Latin, are both performed live at the demonstrations and recorded as video and published on social media. However, the mainstream musical practices of rock and pop stars of Turkey are almost absent from the demonstrations, in any way. Amateur musicians are mainly heard at the demonstrations, especially in İstanbul and İzmir. These amateur musicians perform as small rock groups, marching brass bands, percussion groups, protest music groups, polyphonic and monophonic or heterophonic choruses. However, there are also a very few cases where professional musicians perform, such as the Gezi Park Philarmony concert or the Gezi Band on the stage in Gezi Park. Some well-known professional music groups also publish their recent professional recordings composed for the resistance on the web. Anyway, the most ubiquitous sound is the “music” of pots, pans and whistles performed by the people of Turkey resisting the authoritarian approach of the government. We, as scholars studying music, declare our support for the people of Turkey performing with pots, pans and whistles, for other musicians, and for our colleagues and their students. The uprising marked the breakdown of the coalition between AKP and the Fetullah Gülen Movement, another Islamic movement whose leader now resides in USA and is assumed to have dubious relations with the USA government and with CIA. While AKP was operating against the movement, an unsuccessful military coup happened on July 15, 2016. AKP used the coup as a justification to suppress not only the Gülen Movement but also the whole oppositional political actors: Socialists, social democrats, the Kurdish movement, Turkish nationalists, liberals. As a result of the “state of emergency” declared after the coup and extended up to date, not only political leaders but several oppositional journalists, writers, artists and even some mainstream popular music singers, as well as leftist bands such as Grup Yorum, were arrested. Tens of thousands of scholars have been fired since from their universities: Hundreds of them were leftists against the Gülen Movement. In particular, those who signed a peace declaration between the Turkish State and PKK (Kurdistan Workers’ Party) were targeted.

Preface • xvii

One of them, Betül Yarar, a contributor to this volume, first received a death threat: A big, red cross drawn at the door of her university office; then she was fired from her job; and after she was wanted for arrest. Made in Turkey should be considered also as an act of resistance in these difficult political and social times. Ali C. Gedik Balçova, İzmir, May 2017 Note 1.

www.iaspm.net/declaration-of-support-in-relation-to-the-current-demonstrations-in-turkey/. Accessed in July 2012.

Bibliography Quataert, Donald. 2005. The Ottoman Empire, 1700–1922, New York: Cambridge University Press.

Acknowledgments

First of all, I would like to thank Ayhan Erol whose lectures were invaluable in introducing the study of popular music to me when I was one of his students during my MSc. in musicology at Dokuz Eylül University, İzmir. It is a great honour for me to edit a book on popular music where Ayhan Erol is one of the authors. It has also been a great honor and pleasure for me to collaborate with the series editors Goffredo Plastino and Franco Fabbri. I could not imagine a more friendly, understanding, and supportive team considering the political and professional difficuties I experienced in Turkey which led to several unexpected delays during the editing of this book. In this sense, I am also grateful to a number of professors in musicology in Turkey: Şehvar Beşiroğlu, Ertuğrul Bayraktarkatal, Songül Karahasanoğlu, Nilgün Doğrusöz, and Nermin Kaygusuz. Unfortunately, we lost Şehvar Beşiroğlu, who was also the author of this collection, at the very early at the age of 51 which means she could not see it published. She will not be forgotten by her students and colleagues in Turkey, nor by colleagues from abroad with whom she either contributed during their fieldwork here or she collaborated abroad both in music performances and research. I should also list the names of my friends and colleagues; professor of music sociology, Orhan Tekelioğlu, and professor of evolutionary biology, Ergi Deniz Özsoy for their support during these difficult times. I also acknowledge the support of musicologist Richard Parncutt, not only for taking over my responsibilities at the Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies (JIMS), which the two of us edit together with Amanda Bayley, but also for supporting me in my professional difficulties during my editorial work for this book. I am also grateful to the contributions of my friend and popular music studies scholar Lyndon Way, for the proof-reading of abstracts in the early stages of this book project, and the contributions of Şebnem Sençerman, a PhD candidate in musicology, for proof-reading some of the articles. The internationallyrecognized professor of orthopedics İzge Günal has always been a great mentor and friend. I am indebted to his support and friendship throughout my life, including the period while the editing this book. A complete proof-reading of this book has been made by Nick Hobbs. We were so lucky that Nick Hobbs has been accommodating in Turkey for a long time as a businessman in music and quite familiar with popular musics in Turkey.

xx • Acknowledgments

It would have been not possible to complete the final editing process without the help and support of my friend and colleague Levent Ergun, who edited all the volume’s bibliographies and prepared the final general bibliography. I would also like to thank to all authors for their collaboration and patience during the whole process which consisted of receiving abstracts in 2012, full-texts in 2015 and final revisions in 2017. No doubt, it was also not comfortable for them to survive in the politically harsh times of Turkey. Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to Production Editor Katie Hemmings, Editorial Assistant Peter Sheehy, Editor Genevieve Aoki, and Copy Editor Alice Stoakley at Routledge, and Project Manager Josh Curtis and Managing Director Susan Leaper at Florence Production for their rigorous work in the publishing process and effort to publish without any further delays. Ali C. Gedik Balçova, İzmir, May 2017

Introduction Struggling with and Discussing a “Republic” through Popular Music Ali C. Gedik

Despite the name of the book Made in Turkey: Studies in Popular Music, no doubt a lay reader in Turkey would find the term “popular music” and even its Turkish translation, popüler müzik, somewhat strange. There is no unique term used by listeners in Turkey, which encompasses whole practices of popular music, as we researchers do. Listeners prefer to call their favorite music by the names of the genres—pop, hip-hop, rock, arabesk, metal, folk, jazz, protest, etc. Nevertheless, the term pop is used ambiguously to address many popular music genres, especially since the distinction between “Turkish pop” and “foreign pop,” which emerged in the 1990s, is still in use. Pop is used as an abbreviation for popular music, especially for the mainstream; and all these terms and their meanings also reflect the behaviors of audiences, music critics, the music industry, and musicians within specific historical contexts. Popular music was officially classified simply as “light music” in contrast to “art music” during the early years of the Republic. The more specific term of the 1960s, “Western light music with Turkish lyrics”—defined in contrast to “Western light music with foreign lyrics”— was also used, even as late as the 1980s. This terminology was invented and disseminated by the TRT (Turkish Radio and Television Corporation), a State-controlled mass media. Of course, this terminology belongs to the Republican period and the history of modern popular music dates back to the last century of the Ottoman era. Operettes, kanto, longa, sirto, rabbit songs, and waltzes all belong to this era. Dichotomies of Ottoman identity appear in musical terminology—“Eastern music” and “Western music,” then as allaturca (Turkish origin) and allafranga (French origin, implying Western), and finally as “Western” music and “Turkish” music. However, this terminology mainly reflects a distinction between Western art music and traditional Turkish art music or Turkish folk music, and rather excludes popular music. Although the terminology is defined with reference to Western music, it should be noted that sources of popular music in Turkey also include Arab music—especially from Egypt— and music from the Balkans and Mediterranean cultures, besides the more local musical cultures. While the first appearances of foreign musical genres were simply cover versions either in their original languages or in Turkish, these genres were quickly Turkified. This kind of musical re-making is widespread in Turkey:

2 • Ali C. Gedik

It has readily acknowledged the vital role of Istanbullian Greeks, Armenians, and Jews in mediating non-Turkish musical styles and adapting them for Turkish audiences. It has acknowledged the complex powers and pleasures of the copy, the imitation (Taussig 1993). To create a Turkish jazz (or tango, or hip- hop, or electronica) is not simply to import something (and thus recognize a lack), but to exercise and enjoy mastery in rendering it Turkish. (Stokes 2010, 20) In the rest of this introduction, I will present some background for the chapters which follow. I will first try to define turning points, the moments of transition, when relations between dominant and popular culture are restructured and transformed, as defined by Hall (2006, 361), and second, provide a review of popular music studies in Turkey. First, I plan to sketch a rough picture of popular music in Turkey by defining the historical turning points since the social and cultural dimensions of specific popular music practices are well-presented by the contributors to this book. Second, I will focus on popular music studies, from their emergence in the mid-1980s, which reflect complex mediations on these turning points. Although, the aim of this introduction is to enable a straightforward pluralistic reading of this book, such a background and its main argument inevitably carry the signs of my singular reading of popular music in Turkey, as the title of this chapter implies. My argument is that popular music in Turkey most clearly reveals itself when the political, ideological, and cultural dispositions of the relevant agents towards the “Republic” are considered. In other words, I argue that popular music is both subject and object in the restructuration and transformation of relations between dominant and popular culture, which continuously reshapes the “Republic.” I use the term “Republic” to address both its physical manifestation and its alternative “imaginations” to embrace more flexible conceptions of the Republic such as the “Republic of love” conception of Stokes (2010) who used this idea to identify popular music in Turkey, as well as more direct ideological and political projections.1 In this sense, studies of popular music also reflect their own dispositions towards a notion of “Republic.” Needless to say, the dispositions, agents and “Republic” are not stationary; on the contrary they have their own histories. Struggling 1923 No doubt, the foundation of the Republic of Turkey in 1923 is the first of several turning points in Turkey’s cultural life. However, we should set a balance between the continuities and discontinuities of the Republic with its Ottoman past. While important musical venues of the Ottoman Empire such as the kahvehane (coffeehouse) and meyhane (tavern) continued, new musical venues such as the gazino (nightclub) and pavyon (nightclub only for men) emerged in the Republican era. Still, neither the old nor the new venues stayed unchanged.

Introduction • 3

Such relationships between the Byzantine, Ottoman, and Republican periods are presented in Chapter 1. Starting as early as the 1920s, around the foundation of the Republic, and through to the 1950s, Western popular music genres and dances such as the foxtrot, charleston, jazz, tango, mambo, rhumba, cha-cha were listened to and performed by musicians in a few cities including Istanbul. This shift towards Western popular music accompanied a gradual disappearance of the popular music of the Ottoman era such as kanto, longa, sirto, and rabbit songs which are the subject of Chapter 2. Thus there are many continuities as well as discontinuities between the Ottoman and the Republican eras. A similar relationship of continuity and discontinuity can be found in the history of traditional Ottoman/Turkish art music. This musical culture experienced dramatic changes in form, structure, and context from the nineteenth to the twentieth centuries. Chapter 3 considers these changes particularly by focusing on the standardization of the tuning system as a consequence of modernization processes, which transformed this culture into a popular music practice. Modernization and Westernization processes started in the nineteenth century Ottoman Empire and continued through the years of the Republic, but with a very different motivation: Building a nation-state. Therefore, the main discontinuities can be found in the transformation from a multi-ethnic empire to a nation-state. The “invention” of a Muslim Turkish identity corresponded to the attempts to force either massive assimilations or migrations of many ethnic identities of non-Muslim, non-Turkish, and even non-Sunni peoples which are the most crucial aspects of this transformation. The most important migration was the population exchange between Turkey and Greece in 1923, consisting of two million people in total. Therefore, rebetiko, a popular music genre of the late Ottoman era and its venues in Istanbul and Izmir (Smyrna), mainly disappeared. A musical revolution, Musiki İnkilabı, was one of the most prominent cultural dimensions of this “invention” and thus a break with the Ottoman past. This revolution defines the musical ideal of the Republic as a synthesis of Western art music and Turkish folk music. However, instead of such a synthesis, the success of the musical revolution was most visible in the “invention” of Turkish folk music and institutionalization of Western art music, separately. Especially, the success in the “invention” of Turkish folk music was achieved by illegitimating traditional Ottoman/Turkish art music and the traditional musics of minorities. This was not only a matter of music; the crux of the new cultural policies was based on the rejection of the Ottoman past, which was not considered Turkish. However, neither traditional Ottoman/Turkish art music nor the traditional musics of minorities completely disappeared. These musical policies of the new state are considered in detail in Chapter 4. Finally, a similar pattern of continuities and discontinuities also apply to the following turning points, as well. 1950s Nineteen-fifty is the beginning of the multi-party period and the Korean War, which Turkey took part in at the same time as becoming a member of NATO. After the Second World War, Turkey was not an exception when the USA both reconstructed and dominated

4 • Ali C. Gedik

Europe economically, politically, and culturally. Furthermore, this year marked a shift away from the cultural and musical policies of the Republic by the right-wing party elected at the beginning of this period. In this sense, 1950 marks the start of the liberal transformation of the Republic which continues till today, as Stokes (2010) argues. Although the most important places for traditional Ottoman/Turkish art music such as tekkes (religious lodges) were closed as a consequence of the secular policies of the State during the formative years, traditional Ottoman/Turkish art music became a fundamental source for the emergence of one of the foremost popular music genres, Turkish art music, especially during the 1950s. New music places such as the gazino, new instrumentation including Western musical instruments such as the piano, and the recording and cinema industries and radio broadcasts were the main sources for this genre. Although these industries and broadcasts already existed beforehand, massive consumption of related cultural products only started in the 1950s. In this way, Arab music, especially from Egypt, was diffused in the country by these media and had a profound effect on the new genre. State control over the recording and cinema industries was much weaker than it was over radio, due to the monopolistic nature of State broadcasting; however, it was not possible to control the frequency bands of radio receivers which allowed people to listen to radio broadcasts from nearby countries such as Egypt. American-sourced popular music had more of an impact than European music of the past. Jazz and rock ’n’ roll were two of the main genres of this impact. However, it should be kept in mind that these cultural effects were most visible in a few major cities, especially Istanbul, where local musicians performed these genres as well. Despite the more cosmopolitan cultural policies of the new right-wing government, nationalism never fell off the agenda of official ideology. The Istanbul pogrom of 6–7 September, 1955, was mainly aimed at the city’s Greek minority but Armenians were also seriously affected. Not only nationalism but also religious politics gained a new meaning in Turkey during the Cold War. This new meaning arose in a context where Turkey as a neighbor of the USSR had become a forward part of NATO against communism. Naturally, left-wing and working-class organizations found themselves subject to this ideological atmosphere which meant that coercion became heavier than before. 1960s A military coup in 1960 against the right-wing government signaled another turning point; the beginning of a much more liberal period where the dominant cultural map articulated through popular culture gave rise to a new context. Thus, anti-imperialism and patriotism took the place of nationalism with the rise of the left both in Turkey and in the world as a whole, most prominently after the events of 1968. While performing rock ’n’ roll cover songs continued, two other trends dominated the popular music scene by the 1960s: 1) Aranjman, the performance of songs of mainly English, French, and Italian origin in Turkish and 2) performance of folk tunes in the idioms of Western popular music, both being re-articulations of the official State policy of musical synthesis.

Introduction • 5

In particular, the national Golden Microphone contest organized with the sponsorship of a daily newspaper between 1965 and 1968 promoted such synthesis, as well as original popular music compositions in contrast to aranjman. As a result, this contest paved the way for a new genre called Anadolu Pop (Anatolian Rock/Pop). Chapter 5 focuses on this contest by reviewing the general trends of the 1960s. The musical practices of minorities, inherited from the Ottoman past, share a similar fate to traditional Turkish/Ottoman music. Despite Turkish nationalism as the official ideology, these musical practices did not disappear during the Republican era but became one of the sources for aranjman. Songs originally sung in Arabic, Armenian, Greek, Ladino, and other languages of the Middle East and Balkans were also performed in Turkish. Even in the 1990s when it was no longer relevant to speak about aranjman, minority musical practices continued to have an important place in popular music as a result of multiculturalism both in Turkey and the wider world. Chapter 9 considers these popular music practices of minorities in detail, focusing on Armenian music. Although rock music was an important aspect of the 1968 movement globally, the situation was somewhat different in Turkey. The cultural identity of the 1968 student movement in Turkey was very much determined by left-wing politics in comparison to the European or American ’68 movements, in the sense that leaders of the movement were members of a legal socialist party, who then radicalized and founded illegal armed organizations. While rock music in Turkey was considered to be an aspect of cultural imperialism by left-wing movement, students in the movement gravitated to folk music where the performers espoused the discourses of the movement by modifying the lyrics of folk songs to represent left-wing politics (Gedik 2010). Massive migration of people in the 1960s, especially Alevis, from the East of Turkey to the West, provided the majority of folk song repertoire for the movement. Alevis were subjected to State violence both during Ottoman and Republican times when Sunni Islam was and is the official religion. Therefore, both Alevis and their music already included protest as part of living “traditional” Alevi musical culture. Another military coup in 1971 against the working-class and student movement cannot be considered as another turning point because of its failure to stop the rising left-wing movement. On the contrary, the left-wing movement became massive and more radical, especially by the mid-1970s. In response, radical Islamist and nationalist parties working against the left were effective as representatives of anti-communist policies in line with the US and NATO, and thus governmental policies. By the 1970s, mainstream rock stars of the 1960s evolved into politicized left-wing Anadolu Pop performers. Therefore, while Anadolu Pop became one of the dominant popular music idioms, it carried significant influence from left-wing politics. Chapter 6 presents this period by especially focusing on political music practices, and Chapter 16 presents an interview with one of the foremost names in Anadolu Pop. Both aranjman and Turkish art music still survived in the 1970s. The new sounds of the 1970s can be classified into two trends: Songs based on original compositions within the Western popular music idiom and a quite new phenomenon, arabesk. The first trend was represented in both mainstream music and popular protest music. The musical dimensions of arabesk can be defined as follows:

6 • Ali C. Gedik

Arabesk does not have a “pure” sound. It is a synthesis which incorporates many musical tastes. What I want to stress here is that it is more often than not simply a national blend of many indigenous and foreign styles. The makam (mode) and instruments of traditional Turkish art music and the ayak (scale) and musical instruments of Turkish folk music are the most important indigenous components of the arabesk sound. The foreign musical components of arabesk are western musical materials and near-eastern musical traditions, which bear some resemblance to the Turkish musical heritage. (Erol 2012a, 47) Since arabesk was a challenge to the musical ideals of the Republic, it is of interest to note that it was criticized by both left-wing intellectuals and the State, which was governed by either right-wing politics or military juntas who were against the left. Arabesk as a genre is discussed in detail in Chapter 12. 1980s A turning point as marked as 1960, but with opposite effects, is 1980, when there was another military coup. The target of the junta was to destroy the left-wing political parties, revolutionary unions, leaders, intellectuals, writers, artists, musicians, and militants. As a result, hundreds of thousands of people were arrested, tens of thousands of people left the country as political refugees, hundreds were killed through torture, dozens of revolutionaries were hanged. Although, the working-class, student, and left-wing movements reorganized at the end of the 1980s, the dissolution of the USSR in 1991 equalled a deep ideological defeat and thus the dramatic retreat of the left in the country, as well as elsewhere in the world. Anadolu Pop was fragmented into Turkish rock and folk music and had disappeared by the 1980s. Turkish folk music reappeared in a revival movement where “traditional” performances were particularly originated in Alevi music. This also corresponded to the weakened relationship of Alevis with the left. While most of the famous musicians of the left either emigrated abroad or moderated their politics, a number of young popular music groups survived the revolutionary songs and discourses of the pre-1980s without having either rock or jazz elements in their sound, unlike Anadolu Pop. Arabesk also found very strong representatives inside political music. While intellectuals of the left never accepted this style and its presence inside political music, it reached mass audiences far beyond the left. Another new trend of the period was a late reflection of the political nueva canción (new song) movement of South America of the 1960s. Corresponding to nueva canción, the name of the group Yeni Türkü (New Folk Song) demonstrates such a deep influence, even though the sound of the group was more Mediterranean than folk in style and also less politically oriented when compared to nueva canción. Finally, all these new styles in varying degrees, in some kind of relationship with left movements, led to the emergence of a new musical venue, the Türkü Bar (folksong bar) and the establishment of a new genre, özgün müzik (original music), by the early 1990s. Chapter 6 also considers the period after the military junta in 1980 by focusing on political music.

Introduction • 7

The taverna (tavern) was another new venue and also the name of a genre deeply influenced by arabesk. It appeared around the early 1980s and survived until the mid-1990s. In this genre, a male singer accompanies himself on either a piano or an electronic keyboard, with a repertoire that included arabesk. Arabesk even greatly influenced mainstream popular music. Meanwhile, the rise of the Kurdish movement from the mid-1980s through the 1990s led to great chaos in the southeast of the country. Because of the Kurdish movement and its cultural actors and politics, Kurdish music emerged as an important popular music idiom by the 1990s, despite the illegality of speaking Kurdish. The left was a natural ally of the Kurdish movement and thus protest music incorporated Kurdish music. Kurdish popular music practices are discussed in Chapter 10. The State was an important actor in this political and cultural struggle. It tried to rehabilitate arabesk by sponsoring and supporting “State” arabesk while censuring undesirable music through the State TV and radio monopoly until private TV and radio broadcasting began in the 1990s. The State TV and radio monopoly notwithstanding, Western popular music continued to be popular throughout the Republic after the military coup. Besides mainstream music, punk, metal, hip-hop, etc. were all present in varying degrees in Turkey. In this regard, Chapter 14 considers the appearance of extreme-metal. However, the advent of private/commercial TV and radio marked a shift in the popular music scene of Turkey, which enabled both easier access to Western popular music and the emergence of a more industrial “pop explosion” and star system. The military coup of 1980 also reshaped official ideology as a synthesis of nationalism and Sunni Islam—the Turkish–Islamic synthesis. This official legitimation of nationalism and Sunni Islam led to the rise of various radical right-wing political movements and parties. Two new styles emerged during the mid-1980s in relationship to these movements: Ülkücü pop (idealistic pop) and yeşil pop (green or Islamic pop) which became more visible during the 1990s. Chapter 7 discusses Islamic pop in Turkey in the context of its global appearance. Finally, Chapter 16 considers changes in popular music in Turkey from the 1980s through the 2000s from a global perspective. The 1990s witnessed both the rise of Islamic and radical nationalist movements. Stokes (2013) regards this period as one where a new Islamist popular culture emerges. Islamization and nationalism were again the main weapons against the left and Kurdish movements. As a consequence of political Islam in Turkey, a radical Islamic party, The Welfare Party (Refah Partisi, RP), became a part of the government for the first time in 1996, sharing power with a right-wing party. This government had a short life due to the repression of the RP by the military. Thus, first the RP was closed in 1998 and then a new government formed of a coalition of center-right parties came to power, as a result of elections in 1999. 2000s The foundation of the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, AKP) by former members of RP in 2001 and its electoral success in 2002 resulted in 14 years of power (as of 2016). In this regard, the neoliberal Islamic character of the AKP marked a turning-point. From the beginning of its power, the AKP represented a complete contrast

8 • Ali C. Gedik

to almost all the symbols and institutions of the Republic as founded in 1923. These changes were especially political and cultural and thus signs of Westernization and modernization processes in the Republic. In the case of music, both the State institutions of Western art music and their symbolic representatives such as the composer Fazıl Say have been attacked by the AKP either through censorship or new regulations or legal charges. However, it should be noted that the struggle of the AKP against the Westernization and modernization projects of the Republic did not lead to an abandonment of these processes. This was the deadly “mistake” of the AKP’s predecessor, the RP. Rather the AKP continued these processes by a certain articulation of its neoliberal and Islamic policies. Pious women wearing headscarves became more visible in the public sphere. Religious men and women adopting modern means, looks, and ways of living was quite controversial for secular people. Religious women were also more visible in various mainstream media such as TV channels and daily newspapers. Similarly, a new well-heeled class of religious people became more visible in their ultra-luxurious life as a result of their business relationships with members of the government. One can also say that the liberation of the religious corresponded to a certain suppression of the secular. Even jazz has been used in the context of this ideology by the organization of an impressive annual event during the holy month of Ramadan in Istanbul where foremost international jazz musicians have performed since 2009. Another recent event was the concert of the Anadolu Filarmoni Orkestrası (Anatolian Philharmonic Orchestra) at the AKP’s Izmir congress in 2015. This Western classical orchestra, founded by the government, performed two pieces composed for the President with religious lyrics. However, the compositions and standard was so poor that the quality was far from that expected by the genre. Similarly, the AKP has been quite successful in the construction of its hegemony over almost every domain of mainstream popular culture. Politically rather neutral figures such as Orhan Gencebay, the king of arabesk, Teoman, a rock star, and Sertap Erener, a pop star, all to some extent supported AKP policies. Even some mostly mainstream performers from the left such as Yavuz Bingöl, Onur Akın, Bülent Ortaçgil, Feryal Öney, and Sezen Aksu, also to an extent supported the AKP. Interestingly, the AKP did not particularly support Islamic (or yeşil) pop even though it is musically compatible with its ideology: These parties (RP and AKP, acg) have done little, actively, to promote an Islamic musical culture. But they have actively championed the deregulation of the state media system. This has meant the end of the musical symbols of the secular state (its folk music orchestras and so forth), and a proliferation of Islamist FM radio and television stations requiring content. (Stokes 2013, 15) The success of a neoliberal Islamic party needs explanation. First of all, most of the deputies and ministers of the AKP, and the President and their families were quite “successful” in business. Furthermore, their business activities intensified after their rise to power. Therefore, neoliberal policies fit very well with the cadres of the party. The AKP was not only governing the country through parliament, it was also in power in many municipalities

Introduction • 9

including the biggest cities, Istanbul and Ankara. No doubt, such power relations are important for the political economy of cultural products. Stokes (2010) clearly presents the relation between the success of Sezen Aksu in the music market and neoliberal political economies after the 1980 military coup.2 In addition, as well as suppressing many left-wing musicians, the AKP used legal cases against other figures who did not accept their power, such as mainstream musicians and even football clubs. However, coercion is not enough to explain the AKP’s hegemony. Therefore, ideological dissemination was necessary to achieve consent. On the one hand, many high-ranking military officials, including the head of the military, rectors, well-known politicians and journalists were accused of being members of an illegal organization and plotting a coup d’état were arrested. On the other hand, a process aiming to resolve the Kurdish problem was initiated with dialogue between State and civil actors, and resulting in a State TV channel in Kurdish. Since the military had been responsible both for successive coups once a decade and for fighting the rise of the Kurdish movement, these moves were considered part of democratization and in accordance with the goal of the government to become a member of the EU. The years of the AKP in power while struggling against the ideals of the Republic and while building a neoliberal political economy also corresponded to attempts to construct a new official ideology and thereby reshaping old hegemonic and class ideologies. One of the most significant changes in popular music by the 2000s has been the rise of world music as a result of the intensive globalization processes and multicultural policies, which began in the 1990s. In this sense, Kurdish music as a popular music practice, especially under the world music label are discussed in Chapter 10. The rise of the folk instrument, the mey and its sisters the duduk and the balaban within Turkish, Kurdish, and Armenian popular music practice are considered in Chapter 13. Similarly, the transformation of Sufi music into a world music practice is discussed in Chapter 8. Another minority group in Turkey, the Roma, were also active in a wide range of popular music genres. Their involvement in world music is considered in Chapter 11. World music became one of the new “styles” in Turkey by the 2000s which dominated both popular protest and mainstream music, in terms of sounds. Discussing I would like to review the state of popular music studies in Turkey in comparison to IASPM’s Anglo-American history of popular music studies, especially from the viewpoint of ethnomusicology. The main focus will be on the similarities and differences between studies based on shifts in paradigms: First, the shift from the sociology of arabesk in Turkey and the sociology of rock in Anglo-American popular music studies to the sociology of popular music, and, second, a parallel shift in theoretical premises from Marxism to postmodern theories. Mapping the achievements of popular music studies in Turkey, I hope to show that, despite earlier divergences from the 1990s on, Turkish popular music studies gradually converged with international practice. In this respect, I will refer to the summary of the development of Anglo-American popular music studies in Frith (2004), which will help to reveal scholarly commonalities and distinctions with its Turkish counterpart. Although theoretical premises are shared,

10 • Ali C. Gedik

arising from cultural studies originating in Marxism-influenced schools of thought, the debate on arabesk dominated the origins of popular music studies in Turkey in a similar manner to rock music elsewhere. This distinction is not only limited by the subject matter but also by the positions of scholars. For example, while Turkish scholars were not practitioners of arabesk, during the early days of IASPM the contrary was the case for scholars of rock music (Frith 2004). While rock was initially considered at IASPM conferences in relation to youth and subcultures as well as in its ideological position against mainstream popular music, in Turkey arabesk was considered in relation to lower social classes and their associated “low culture,” with an ideological position favoring mainstream popular music. This comparison was one of the main themes of the arabesk debate during the 1970s and 1980s. Intellectuals who mainly belonged to the political left, ranging from social democrats to communists, considered this music as a cultural tool that leads the lower classes towards fatalism instead of political struggle. Therefore, in Turkey, sociology led the way in popular music studies through sociology of arabesk rather than a more general sociology of music. By contrast, in music departments the traditional musics of Turkey or Western art music were dominant; and ethnomusicological studies were mostly concerned with traditional Turkish musics, considered as non-Western music. One distinction in the development of popular music studies in Turkey was that Marxists in the academy either resigned or were banished from universities as a result of the military coups of 1971 and 1980. Therefore, Marxists could only find a place in left-wing journals of critical theory, arts, and culture, operating outside the universities. In this context, Murat Belge (1983) was a key figure during the 1970s and 1980s, considering popular culture (including popular music) from a cultural studies perspective. In contrast to the dominance of structuralist Marxism, especially the Frankfurt School, in cultural debates by most of the Turkish left, Belge applied a British Marxist perspective, as represented by Raymond Williams and E.P. Thompson. This was despite the fact that Belge had initially introduced Althusser and his structuralist Marxism to Turkey. Anyway, this is not surprising since his academic expertise was in British literature. Within cultural studies, both Althusserian and Adornian critical perspectives could still have a safe place within the academy and the left—whose position weakened considerably after the coup of 1980. In particular, important publications by Ünsal Oskay (1982) and Ahmet Oktay (1993) have maintained their theoretical position within cultural debate. However, a significant theoretical shift occurred during the 1990s, following Stuart Hall’s formulation of Marxism based on Gramscian theory of hegemony (Hall 1981). For example, in Meral Özbek’s pioneering book (1991) which was again on the sociology of arabesk but this time bringing it into cultural and popular music studies. Nevertheless, the sociology of arabesk survived in its old sense in the study by Nazife Güngör (1990) that presented it as a reflection of social degeneration. The distinguishing quality of Güngör’s study was presenting such a perspective on arabesk in a new disciplinary format. The first international publications of popular music studies from Turkey were either directly (Özbek 1997) or indirectly (Tekelioğlu 1996) on arabesk. Eventually, an edited book in Turkish (Paçacı 1999) on the history of music in the Turkish Republic dedicated

Introduction • 11

one of its four sections to popular music and arabesk was not a central issue. The subjects of this section were the music market, minorities, jazz, rock, and mainstream popular music. Another sign of the theoretical shift towards the 2000s was the translation and publication of key works in cultural studies with only a few years of delay. Of course, Marxism was not as attractive as before (Eagleton 2003) and thus postmodernist theories became more prevalent in Turkey as well. During the mid-1990s the developing Internet made it much easier for colleagues interested in popular music studies to find relevant publications. This synchronized studies in Turkey with the rest of the world faster than ever before. Furthermore, colleagues from abroad visited Turkey, such as ethnomusicologists Martin Stokes and Tom Solomon; the former started to study arabesk in the mid-1980s (Stokes 1992; 2000) and the latter studied Turkish hip-hop and its scene in Istanbul from the end of the 1990s (Solomon 2005). Their presence had an indubitably positive effect on the study of popular music in Turkey, especially after the publication of Arabesk Debate by Stokes (1992) in Turkish (Stokes 1998). However, the interest of scholars from abroad in Turkey dates back to the years of comparative musicology of the Berlin School (Abraham and von Hornbostel 1904). Then the focus of interest was either on traditional art music or folk music, in line with the ethnomusicological research programme, until the emergence of popular music studies in the 1980s. Although the book included Greece and Hungary, the study of traditional Turkish art music and its appearances in popular music by Peter Manuel (1986) could be considered one of the breakthroughs. Furthermore, Manuel (1988) considers both art and folk music, and their appearances in mainstream popular music, briefly but rigorously under the subtitle “Turkey” in his milestone book on the study of popular music in the non-Western world. A key figure from abroad focusing on traditional Turkish art music as a popular music practice is ethnomusicologist John Morgan O’Connell who conducted field research in Turkey in the 1990s. O’Connell (2003; 2005a; 2005b; 2006) represents the state-of-theart in his articles including his recent book (O’Connell 2013) on the subject. Similarly, Irene Markoff (1986; 1990–1) is among the leading scholars studying folk music in Turkey. Markoff (1994) is also one of the first of very few who have contributed to the debate on arabesk. Postmodern theories have not been dominant in popular music studies, even though this has been the case in other intellectual areas. Seminal international publications in this area of research, such as Frith (1996), Middleton (1997), Shepherd and Wicke (1997), and Reebee Garofalo (1996) show that popular music studies did not shift completely to a postmodernist position but either adopted some of the concepts and approaches of postmodern theories or preserved their Marxist positions. A groundbreaking study in Turkey was a book by Ayhan Erol (2002) who presented a survey of cultural and popular music studies enriched with his own fieldwork as an ethnomusicologist. It encompasses almost all the main themes of popular music studies such as the music industry, standardization, authenticity, identity, and meaning in popular music from various theoretical perspectives, ending with his case studies in Turkey. The book explicitly marked a break from the sociology of arabesk, even though another arabesk study was published the same year (Işık and Erol 2002).

12 • Ali C. Gedik

The second book by Erol (2009) presents a collection of his articles, either published in journals or presented in symposiums, showing his wide range of interdisciplinary interest in popular music studies, ranging from semiology to folk music, from theoretical issues to rock. In between these two books, the year 2003 saw two other important publications on popular music: The first and unfortunately the last issue of the journal Popüler Müzik Yazıları published in 2013 was dedicated to popular music studies, and the journal Folklor/Edebiyat published as volume 9, issue 36, 2003–4, was dedicated to popular music studies. In addition, Orhan Tekelioğlu (2006) presented a collection of his writings published both in academic journals and regular magazines, clearly demonstrating the shift from a sociology of arabesk to one of popular music. As a field, popular music studies in Turkey is gradually becoming richer in both its range of subjects and theoretical approaches. Such enriching finds its reflection both in new issues and new perspectives on old ones, and thus the number of international publications by Turkish scholars is increasing. The study by Yetkin Özer (2003) is one of the first international publications coming out of popular music studies in Turkey, which was not about arabesk. Özer discusses the relationship between popular music in Turkey and the musical cultures of the Mediterranean by reviewing the history of popular music from the 1950s to the present. Meanwhile, arabesk has remained a subject of discussion but from more contemporary theoretical viewpoints, as the papers of Erol (2004) and Yarar (2008; 2009) show. Similarly, the studies of Beken (1998; 2003) include a discussion of arabesk focusing on its place of performance, the gazino. Studies on Alevi music (Erol 2008), kanto, an older popular music genre (Beşiroğlu 2003), and general perspectives on Turkish popular music (Karahasanoğlu and Skoog 2009) are other relatively new issues that have appeared in publication. Two of Erol’s (2011; 2012a) publications introduce such issues and theoretical perspectives to popular music studies in Turkey; while the former discusses Islamic pop, the latter applies Bourdieu’s sociology to the cultural policies of the Turkish state. In a similar vein, publications in Turkish also appeared alongside international ones during this period. The subjects of these studies were the music industry (Çakmur 2002), Zeki Müren, an icon of mainstream popular music (Yaraman 2002), rock music (Erol 2003), and protest music from the 1960s and 1970s (Akkaya and Çelik 2006). Two studies by Gedik (2009; 2010), considering the history of political music as a mediation of class struggle in Turkey, represent an Orthodox-Marxist approach to the study of popular music. These studies are “orthodox” in the sense that they are theoretically committed to British Cultural Studies and follow Marxist approaches in popular music studies. Finally, a book in Turkish edited by Aytar and Parmaksızoğlu (2011) summarizes achievements in popular music studies in Turkey by covering the history, sociology, and politics of musical entertainment in Istanbul, including most of the important genres; such as jazz in the 1940s, musical entertainment in the Ottoman period, türkü bar (folksong bar), musical entertainment in the Republic, dance, rock, musical entertainments of the upper and lower classes, festivals, spare-time practices, disco, the meyhane, and the gazino. Meanwhile, a number of international publications on minorities appeared around the year 2010. These studies were distinguished by their consideration of minority musical practices. Aksoy (2006; 2013) discusses Kurdish music, Akgül (2008) and Değirmenci (2011)

Introduction • 13

consider Roma musicians, and Yıldız, Reigle, and Beşiroğlu (2013), and Yıldız (2013) focus on Armenian music. Most of these studies also consider their subject in relation to global music trends. A book by Değirmenci (2013) focuses on world music by considering Roma, Sufi, and folk music practices in Turkey. As far as I know, Değirmenci’s (2013) study is the only contribution from Turkey written as a monograph in English. Minority musical practices of emigrants from Turkey have also been the subject of study by scholars outside Turkey. Leslie Hall’s study (1982) is one of the first on the subject and considers folk music performed by the Turkish diaspora in Toronto. Ethnomusicologist Martin Greve (2003) considers much wider ethnic identities, including Turkish, Kurdish, etc., and various relevant popular music practices in Berlin in his book published in German and translated into Turkish in 2006. The studies of Solomon (2006; 2009; 2011) on the Turkish diaspora in Western Europe consider Turkish hip-hop more specifically. Several studies from Turkey also contributed to the issue: Aksoy (2006; 2011; 2013) discusses the Kurdish Alevi diaspora in Germany, and Erol (2012b) considers the musical practices of the Alevi community in Toronto. While the interest of leading colleagues in popular musics of Turkey continues, a number of younger generation of scholars have contributed from abroad. In another groundbreaking book, Stokes (2010) focuses on three leading singers of mainstream popular music, Zeki Müren, Orhan Gencebay, and Sezen Aksu, and uses the history of popular music to understand the liberal transformation of Turkey started by the 1950s. Another study of Stokes (2013) broadens his interest to include the emerging Islamic popular culture of Turkey in the 1990s. Although Solomon had not yet published a monograph about Turkish rap, a number of studies draw on his continuing interest in it (Solomon 2013a; 2015). Similarly, Solomon’s (2013b) recent work on the appearance of Turkish popular music in the Eurovision Song Contest is another sign of his continuing interest on it (Solomon 2007). Elliot Bates’ (2010a) fieldwork in Istanbul recording studios focuses on an, until recently, highly neglected area in popular music studies and ethnomusicology. Bates (2013) recently proposed a fresh direction for the study of studio production from an ethnomusicological point of view by considering the standard vocabulary of audio engineers such as “reverberation,” “feedback,” “equalization,” “compression,” etc. as central to his approach. This also found its reflection in the studies of Gedik (2014; 2015). A book by Hecker (2012) considers the appearance of heavy-metal in a Muslim society as a tool for construction of identity and resistance during the last decade when tensions between State secularism and Islamic movements were becoming increasingly antagonistic in Turkey. Finally, Jackson (2013) discusses the para-liturgical musical practices of the Jewish community in Istanbul and thereby presents the cultural life of minorities from the Ottoman Empire into the Turkish Republic. A recent distinct figure in popular music studies in Turkey is Lyndon Way. He is distinct in various senses; he is a Turkish citizen of Scottish descent born and raised in London who then has been working in the academy in Turkey for more than a decade with a background in post-punk bands as a bass player and presently with expertise in social semiotics. This context offers a unique point-of-view in his examination of Özgün music, rock, and Gezi Park protest songs in a number of recent articles (Way 2012; 2013; 2014; 2015).

14 • Ali C. Gedik

Recently, there have been a number of books on various subjects published in Turkish: Özyıldırım (2013) looks at the relation of music in the Arab world and Turkey through the twentieth century; Balkılıç (2015) discusses the music policies of the State in its formative years by focusing on folk music; and Girgin (2015) argues that Roma dance is an expression of identity via the transformation and reconstruction of a culture. Finally, a book by Bates (2010b), dedicated to music cultures in Turkey, sets a standard as an introduction to the study of popular music in Turkey. Published by the Oxford University Press within the Global Music Series, this book displays a growing wider interest in Turkey. In summary, despite certain divergences in its early days, the development of popular music studies in Turkey parallels that of popular music studies elsewhere, and converging gradually from the 1990s onwards. However, in order to avoid giving an exaggerated impression of popular music studies in Turkey, it would be wise to give it a more critical look. This would also enable us to discuss its institutional background. First of all, it is interesting to note that disadvantages of studying popular music in Turkey could easily become advantages. Although sociology is a well-established discipline, essential disciplines of popular music studies such as musicology, ethnomusicology, cultural anthropology, communication studies, and cultural studies are considerably newer in Turkey. The first department of musicology was established in 1976 in İzmir. Although popular music was not central to the curriculum, this first program included a lecture entitled “a history of jazz and pop music” (Çolakoğlu 2015). Other musicology or music departments were opened in Istanbul and Ankara by the mid-1980s. As a result of the populist policies of right-wing governments after the military coup many new universities and music departments from the 1980s until the present were opened without the necessary academic preparation.3 The total number of musicology and music departments is now 20. It is still not unusual to see professors of musicology in most of these departments who do not have a musicology degree. The academic degrees of these colleagues are mainly in either composition, performance, folklore, music education or music theory. One distinguishing event was the opening of Müzik İleri Araştırmalar Merkezi (MIAM) (Centre for Advanced Studies in Music) which is focused on graduate studies with an international program and staff under the direction of Şehvar Beşiroğlu. As a result, it could be said that a new subject such as popular music studies did not experience many obstacles compared to some European countries, which have well established and much older musicology traditions. Nevertheless, despite the fruitful consequences of popular music studies in Turkey such as an increasing number of international publications, there has still been no publication in core journals like Ethnomusicology, Popular Music, Popular Music Studies or Popular Music and Society. There is also a discernible lack of critique on the destructive results of neoliberal policies, state violence, censorship, and the Islamization of society in the literature of Turkish popular music studies. Anyway, it is fair to remember that current international publications on popular music are also far from critical discourses of the formative years of popular music studies. This could be regarded as another point of convergence between studies in Turkey and the Anglo-American world.

Introduction • 15

However, it seems surprising to find such critical discourses and writings on protest music more readily in publications written for lay readers. Music magazines such as Stüdyo İmge (1985–1993), Roll (1996–2009), and Deli Kasap (2001–) and music books by Solmaz (1996), Kahyaoğlu (2003), Dilmener (2003), Meriç (2006), and Canbazoğlu (2009) could be regarded as being in this category. Although they naturally lack theoretical and disciplinary perspectives, their ambitiously descriptive style makes them important references for educational or academic publications as well. It should also be noted that most of these music critics also publish in the more prestigious daily newspapers. I suppose that this fact gives an idea of the interest of Turkish audiences in reading about music. Since it is not possible to present an exhaustive description in this introduction, I would like to finish by considering two more issues: Societies and journals of popular music studies’ societies and journals in Turkey. Unfortunately, there is no such society for musicology or ethnomusicology, though Turkey is represented by a small branch at IASPM. Although popular music studies could easily find a place in any journal of social sciences and humanities, I would like to mention only music journals. The Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies (JIMS) under the editorship of Ali C. Gedik published its first issue in 2007 with the support of colleagues from the department of musicology of Dokuz Eylül University. The journal revised its guidelines and editorial board in 2008 with the help of its new coeditor Richard Parncutt and became a unique international journal promoting collaborations in music research with colleagues from the humanities and sciences. Although JIMS is not only dedicated to popular music studies, its scope covers the subject. Simon Frith and Nicola Dibben serve as associate editors of popular culture and sociology, and its editors since 2012 are Gedik, Parncutt, and Amanda Bayley. The Porte Akademik: Journal of Music and Dance Studies, first published in 2010 and edited by Şehvar Beşiroğlu, is another prestigious journal. Although the journal accepts submissions either in Turkish or English, most of the articles are published in Turkish, which is a great advantage for both colleagues from Turkey and the development of musicology in Turkey. The scope of the journal is the social sciences and humanities, with popular music studies accounting for a high percentage of the articles published to date. Finally, there have been 51 graduate theses on popular music completed since 1999 and around half of them were from musicology or music departments.4 This number should be appreciated in the context of there being only six PhD programs (Çolakoğlu 2015). The other 45 degrees were gained from departments of sociology, anthropology, literature, and communications. It is not possible in this introduction to mention all the shortcomings, such as insufficient study topics, theories, and methodologies, nor a complete list of the successes of popular music studies in Turkey. However, both the successes and shortcomings are part of the Republic’s history and thus these studies can also be read as discussions on the Republic itself. Acknowledgements I am grateful to the editor of the IASPM journal, iaspm@journal, Hillegonda C. Rietveld for permission to use my article (Gedik 2011) as part of the Discussing section of this

16 • Ali C. Gedik

introduction. I would like to express my gratitude to Ayhan Erol for his comments. I would I also like to thank Nick Hobbs for English editing. Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

Republic of Love is also the name of a book by Stokes. Briefly, Stokes tries to understand the liberal transformation of Turkey from the 1950s, using a central concept of the book, “cultural intimacy” and its appearances in popular music. In this sense, especially the first chapter of the book presents an alternative reading of the history of popular music in Turkey. Although Sezen Aksu is considered to be a left sympathizer, her public support for the AKP and her expressions of support for the military coup published in a music journal and circulated in social media demonstrate that she was never of the left (see Hey 1980). For example, after the coup, many academics without the appropriate degrees were appointed to professorships in one night due to insufficient number of academic staff as a consequence of Marxist scholars either being dismissed or resigning. The numbers were arrived at via the following government website by searching abstracts for “popular music”: https://tez.yok.gov.tr/UlusalTezMerkezi/tezSorguSonucYeni.jsp

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18 • Ali C. Gedik Karahasanoğlu, Songül and Gabriel Skoog. 2009. “Synthesizing Identity: Gestures of Filiation and Affiliation in Turkish Popular Music.” Asian Music 40 (2): 52–71. Manuel, Peter. 1986. “Modal Harmony in Andalusian, Eastern European, and Turkish Syncretic Musics.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 21: 70–94. ——. 1988. Popular Musics of the Non-Western World: An Introductory Survey. New York: Oxford University Press. Markoff, Irene. 1986. “The Role of Expressive Culture in the Demystification of a Secret Sect of Islam: The Case of the Alevis of Turkey.” World of Music 28 (3): 42–54. ——. 1990–1. “The Ideology of Musical Practice and the Professional Turkish Folk Musician: Tempering the Creative Impulse.” Asian Music 22 (1): 129–145. ——. 1994. “Popular Culture, State Ideology and National Identity in Turkey: The Arabesk Polemic.” In Cultural Transitions in the Middle East, edited by Şerif Mardin, 225–235. Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers. Meriç, Murat. 2006. Pop dedik: Türkçe sözlü hafif batı müziği [Pop: Western light music with Turkish lyrics]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Middleton, Richard. 1997. Studying Popular Music. Reprint. Philadelphia, PA: Open University Press. O’Connell, John Morgan. 2003. “Song Cycle: The Life and Death of the Turkish Gazel.” Ethnomusicology 47 (3): 399–414. ——. 2005a. “Sound Sense: Mediterranean Music from a Turkish Perspective.” In The Mediterranean in Music: Critical Perspectives, Common Concerns, Cultural Differences, edited by David Cooper and Kevin Dawe, 3–25. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. ——. 2005b. “In the Time of Alaturka: Identifying Difference in Musical Discourse.” Ethnomusicology 49 (2): 177–205. ——. 2006. “The Mermaid of the Meyhane: The Legend of a Greek Singer in a Turkish Tavern.” In Music and the Sirens, edited by Linda Austern and Inna Naroditskaya, 273–293. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. ——. 2013. Alaturka: Style in Turkish Music (1923–1938). Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishers, SOAS Musicology Series. Oktay, Ahmet. 1993. Türkiye’de popüler kültür [Popular culture in Turkey]. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yay. Oskay, Ünsal. 1982. XIX. Yüzyıldan günümüze kitle iletişiminin kültürel işlevleri [Cultural functions of mass communication from nineteenth century to today]. Ankara: Ankara Ünv. Yay. Özbek, Meral. 1991. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular culture and the arabesk of Orhan Gencebay]. Istanbul: İletişim Yay. ——. 1997. “Arabesk Culture: A Case of Modernization and Popular Identity.” In Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey, edited by S. Bozdogan and R. Kasaba, 211–232. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Özer, Yetkin. 2003. “Crossing the Boundaries: The Akdeniz Scene and Mediterraneannes.” In Mediterranean Mosaic: Popular Music and Global Sounds, edited by Goffredo Plastino, 199–220. New York and London: Routledge. Özyıldırım, Murat. 2013. Arap ve Türk musikisinin xx. yüzyıl birlikteliği [Togetherness of Arab and Turkish music in the twentieth century]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. Paçacı, Gönül, ed. 1999. Cumhuriyetin sesleri [Sounds of the republic]. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Shepherd, John, and Peter Wicke. 1997. Music and Cultural Theory. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Solmaz, Metin. 1996. Türkiye’de pop müzik dünü ve bugünü ile bir infilak masalı [An explosion history of pop music in Turkey]. Istanbul: Pan Yayıncılık. Solomon, Tom. 2005. “ ‘Living Underground is Tough’: Authenticity and Locality in the Hip-hop Community in Istanbul, Turkey.” Popular Music 24 (1): 1–20. ——. 2006. “Hardcore Muslims: Islamic Themes in Turkish Rap in Diaspora and in the Homeland.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 38: 59–78. ——. 2007. “Articulating the Historical Moment: Turkey, Europe, and Eurovision 2003.” In A Song for Europe: Popular Music and Politics in the Eurovision Song Contest, edited by Ivan Raykoff and Robert Tobin, 135–145. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. ——. 2009. “Berlin-Frankfurt-Istanbul: Turkish Hip-Hop in Motion.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 12 (3): 305–327. ——. 2011. “Whose Diaspora? Hybrid Identities in ‘Turkish Rap’ in Germany.” In Music and Identity in Norway and Beyond: Essays Commemorating Edvard Grieg the Humanist, edited by Thomas Solomon, 253–267. Bergen: Fagbokforlaget. ——. 2013a. “Ayben: The Girl’s Voice in Turkish Rap.” In Women Singers in Global Contexts: Music, Biography, Identity, edited by Ruth Hellier, 73–91. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. ——. 2013b. “The Oriental Body on the European Stage: Producing Turkish Cultural Identity on the Margins of Europe.” In Empire of Song: Europe and Nation in the Eurovision Song Contest, edited by Dafni Tragaki, 173–201. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press.

Introduction • 19 ——. 2015. “Self-censorship as Critique: The Case of Turkish Rapper Sagopa Kajmer,” in “Researching Music Censorship”, ed. Helmi Järviluoma and Jan Sverre Knudsen, special edition, Danish Musicology Online 37–53. Accessed February 28, 2015. www.danishmusicologyonline.dk/arkiv/arkiv_dmo/dmo_saernummer_ 2015/dmo_saernummer_2015_musikcensur_02.pdf. Stokes, Martin.1992. Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ——. 1998. Arabesk olayı: Türkiye’de müzik ve müzisiyenler. Translated by Hale Eryılmaz. Istanbul: Iletişim Yay. ——. 2000. “East, West and Arabesk.” In Western Music and Its Others, edited by Georgia Born and David Hesmondhalgh, 213–234. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. ——. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music. London: University of Chicago Press. ——. 2013. “New Islamist Popular Culture in Turkey.” In Music, Culture and Identity in the Muslim World: Performance, Politics and Piety, edited by Kemal Salhi, 15–35. Routledge Advances in Middle East and Islamic Studies, Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Tekelioğlu, Orhan. 1996. “The Rise of a Spontaneous Synthesis: Historical Background of Turkish Popular Music.” Middle Eastern Studies 32 (1): 194–216. ——. 2006. Pop yazılar: Varoşlardan merkeze yürüyen “halk zevki” [Pop writings: Public pleasure walking from suburbs to center]. Istanbul: Telos Yay. Way, Lyndon C. 2012. “Pop’s Subversive Potential: Turkish Popular Music Videos as a Multi-modal Site of Resistance.” Multimodal Communication 1 (3): 251–275. ——. 2013. “Discourses of Popular Politics, War and Authenticity in Turkish Pop Music.” Social Semiotics 23 (5): 715–734. ——. 2014. “Özgünlük ve direniş hikayeleri: Popüler müzikte protesto potansiyeli.” [Stories of originality and resistance: Potential of protest in popular music.] Kültür ve iletişim dergisi 17 (1): 39–68. ——. 2015. “Spaces of Protest in Turkish Popular Music.” In Relocating Popular Music, edited by Ewa Mazierska and Georgina Gregory, 27–43. London: Palgrave. Yaraman, Ayşegül, ed. 2002. Biyografya 3 Zeki Müren. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayıncılık. Yarar, Betül. 2008. “Politics of/and Popular Music: An Analysis of the History of Arabesk Music from the 1960s to the 1990s in Turkey.” Cultural Studies 22 (1): 35–79. ——. 2009. Politics and/of Popular Culture: Football and Arabesk Music in the Times of the New Right in Turkey. Saarbrüken, Germany: VDM Publishing. Yıldız, Burcu. 2013. “Armenian Yerki Bari Khump (Song and Dance Ensemble) Tradition: A Cultural Recovery within a Musicking Society.” Porte Akademik: Journal of Music and Dance Studies 2: 95–101. Yıldız, Burcu, Robert Reigle, and Şehvar Beşiroğlu. 2013. “Onnik Dinkjian’ın müzikal kimliğinde kültürel bellek ve memleket izleri.” [Cultural identity and traces of country in the musical identity of Onnik Dinkjian] Porte Akademik: Journal of Music and Dance Studies 8: 53–64.

PART

I

Histories

This part presents four essays focusing on the history of popular music in Turkey. Although, the chapters in this part cover a wide range of historical periods, from the Byzantium to Ottoman and then to the Republican eras, their main interest is especially from the Reform Ottoman to the founding years of the Republic. While each chapter presents a particular period, they also represent different disciplinary approaches on different musical issues, as implied in the title “histories”; and thus these essays present an historical background for the more recent period of popular music in Turkey and thus the subsequent chapters. The first chapter, “Legacies, continuities, and breaks: Musical entertainment in the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires and the Republic of Turkey” by Volkan Aytar considers musical life during the periods spanning the Byzantine-Ottoman Empires and Republican eras from the perspective of entertainment and leisure studies. Therefore, the main interest of this chapter is the continuities of and breaks in musical entertainment at various musical spaces in the history at this region by discussing the regulators and mediators acting between supply and demand. In particular, the role of the State in shaping ethnic, religious, and class relations within musical entertainment is argued from an alternative perspective to Orientalist approaches focusing on the tensions between tradition and modernity. As a result, this chapter presents an important historical background not only for the immediately following chapters but also the rest of the book. It is also unique in its covering of such a wide historical period in Turkish musical life. While the first chapter presents a bird’s eye perspective on a wide period, the second chapter, “Entertainment spaces, genres, and repertoires in Ottoman musical life” by Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin, focuses particularly on the Ottoman era by considering musical entertainment in detail. Beşiroğlu and Girgin with their background in musicology begin their chapter by discussing types of entertainment and continue by considering entertainment spaces and then genres and dances. Their analytical approach is exemplified by three comprehensive tables. The chapter considers both change in and transformation of existing practices, and newly emerging ones during the Ottoman era. Although some of the topics considered in the chapter could be found in the relevant literature, such a detailed and comprehensive study is presented here for the first time. This chapter does not only clarify popular music of the era but also fills a gap in recent studies on Ottoman popular culture where musical questions took either little or no place. Chapter 3, “A topography of changing tastes: The 12-tone equal-tempered system and the modernization of Turkish music” by Ali Ergur discusses modernization processes in

22 • Histories

the Ottoman and Republican eras and their reflections in both Ottoman/Turkish popular and traditional art music. Ergur follows Weber and Simmel in their understanding of modernization process in urban life and thus underlines the relationship of the capitalist mode of production to modernization, instead of following the common notion of a simple top-down process. Thus this chapter presents how modernization shaped certain musical practices based in traditional art music by concomitant rationalization and standardization processes. Chapter 4, “Music reform in Turkey: On the failures and successes of inventing national songs” by Özgür Balkılıç focuses on the formative years of the Republic. Balkılıç, with a background in sociology, sheds light on State music policies from the early 1920s until the early 1950s. These music policies during the founding years of the Republic were called Musiki Devrimi (musical revolution)—one of the fundamental revolutions of the State for the construction of a nation-state. Balkılıç examines the goals, applications, failures, and successes of this revolution, which was mainly focused on the Turkification of folk songs and the institutionalization of Western classical music. Rejection of traditional Ottoman art music was part of this project which aimed to arrive at a synthesis of Turkish folk song and Western classical music. The policy of synthesis had a deep impact on popular music in Turkey. This chapter presents an important contribution by its comprehensive approach on the subject.

1 Legacies, Continuities, and Breaks Musical Entertainment in the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires and the Republic of Turkey Volkan Aytar

Introduction and Research Questions In the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires, as well as in the Republic of Turkey, musical entertainments in particular and leisure consumption in general were tightly woven into larger socio-political, administrative, cultural, and economic arrangements. In this chapter, while not intending to provide an exhaustive description or analysis of a wide array of such practices and traditions spanning over centuries, I try to provide a perspective that offers the development of a meaningful analytical tool. Thus I identify my research questions as follows: (a) How could we comprehend and contextualize the demands of various types of consumers? How did various types of producers who supplied such musical entertainment services fulfill such demands? In short, I try to look at the dynamics of supply and demand. (b) How did the State and other actors mediate between and regulate this supply and demand? How did regulation and mediation mechanisms provide the broad contours within which such activities operated? (c) How was “ethnic” difference and diversity functionalized, and then later on, commodified? How did this functionalization take place in terms of consuming the “Other” as an object of interest? How were various ethno-religious groups socially, economically, and culturally channeled to distinct musical entertainment-oriented vocations and market niches? Theoretical Framework: Embeddedness, Temporality, and Spatiality to the Rescue In order to answer the above questions, I argue that leisure consumption and musical entertainment are shaped by the interaction of consumers and producers. I learn from Rath (2007) that this interaction is always embedded in wider structures, and is always mediated.

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Which is why I also focus on regulators and mediators. In this sense, I aim to contextualize the political and socio-cultural processes that make entertainment a site for the articulation of ethnic and class relations and nation-state building. Musical entertainment arrangements are the reflection of a particular set of social relations within which the state and other actors intervene. What is to be added, especially in the Reform Ottoman and Republican periods, is that musical entertainment assumed an “instrumental role in structuring people’s overall experience of modernity” (Miles 1998, 19). It provided a launching pad of particularized identity and an individually customized way of experiencing a macro-historical process. In this vein, I espouse a long-term historical approach, learning from Braudel’s (1958) longue durée and try to mobilize its analytical dynamism and interpretative power. Which is why I am not following an approach that would limit itself with a mere recounting of “events” expressing either the sparks or the darker moments of the musical entertainment scene. Instead, I focus on the key transformations and longitudinal sediments left behind by those singular events, and seek to provide a reading of the country’s historical sociology of musical entertainment. I also try to avoid the trap of over-theorizing some supposedly trans-historical constants. Such naturalized constants such as an “age-old” tension between conservatism and modernity shaping the ebbs and flows of the restraint and relaxation of musical entertainment are easy to take for granted, especially within an Orientalist reading (Said 1979) of the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Turkey. In this sense, numerous events could be portrayed as symptomatic of a macro-historical scene dominated by the pains of oscillating between the polarized political, social, and cultural forces of the traditional and the modern. Facing these challenges, what I propose and attempt to develop is a “multi-layered perspective” (Hopkins 1982) that hopes to speak not only to the spatial concentrations and clustering of musical entertainment establishments but also to the continuities and breaks in Byzantine, Ottoman, and Republican forms. The Byzantine and Classical Ottoman Empires In these two formative periods (namely the Byzantine period that lasted from the fourth century until the Ottoman conquest in 1453, and the Classical Ottoman Period from 1453 until the beginning of the nineteenth century) both imperial states made their regulatory roles felt quite actively on the musical entertainment scene. The imperial authorities and administrators directly helped to establish the hierarchical stratification of employees in musical entertainment. The State took this role quite seriously, since the showing off of imperial strength, sustaining socio-cultural boundaries, and promoting the allegiance of its subjects all depended on such a regulatory role. For Byzantine rulers, the symbolic powers of the patriarch extended to both the celestial and earthly domains, and celebratory occasions were those connecting the two: “Ceremonies accompanied by music and dancing were among the concrete reflections of the order, which was necessary for the continuation of the state and the comfort of the society” (Durak 2010, 54). In this sense, ceremonies are occasions in which order is being popularly seconded. To illustrate such a function, a pamphlet entitled The Book of Ceremonies commissioned

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by the Byzantine Emperor Konstantinos VII reads: “highly appraised ceremonies make the power of the throne even more majestic, increases its prestige and at the same time, arouse feelings of admiration amidst both the populace and the foreigners” (Durak 2010, 13). The Byzantine crown also placed much symbolic emphasis on imperial feasts and banquets (sumposion or symposion, roughly meaning a “drinking party”) to ostentatiously show the glory of the empire, a tradition that continued under Ottoman rule as well (Tez 2009, 250). A sumposion served a social function primarily for men, similar to the Ancient Greek tradition of holding debates accompanied by music, and it was an important occasion for discussions on matters of state administration and economy, as well as cultural and literary topics. These functions of sumposion were later echoed in the Classical and Reform Ottoman as well as Republican Turkish traditions of bezm and devlet sofrası. Bezm literally means a “drinking assembly,” and implies a “courtly banquet,” while devlet sofrası means a “state banquet” (Çoruk 2001). A sumposion constituted an important event wherein, as well as dance, pantomime-like, parody-based shows were shown and music was played. Especially during the periods of the increased political and communitarian influence of the Orthodox Church, women were not allowed to attend most sumposia, and had to dine separately together with the youth and children. Women were generally prevented from joining in “public displays of amusement” (Garland 2006, 165). This is an instance of traditional paternalism and its impact on gender dynamics. In this sense, Ottoman rule seems to have continued patriarchal tradition by adding more severe demarcations separating women and men socially and spatially (İstanbul Ansiklopedisi 1994, 144), especially considering the impact of Islam’s gender policies. I argue that, in terms of state-led regulation, the Classical Ottoman period borrowed the traditional paternalism of the Byzantine period. The communitarian notions—which cluster and stratify various groups based on their mainly confessionally demarked communities—were added into the mix. The Palace was the main regulator, similar to the Byzantine crown, as a way of increasing allegiance to and promoting the power of the state, and it promoted, supported, and hosted musical entertainment events. The Palace was also the main power source for stratifying groups of entertainers and putting limitations or altogether banning or criminalizing some forms with the aid of Muslim clergy. Apart from the state, religious authorities had additional regulatory and mediating roles. Not only because of close linkages between the imperial administration and the clergy, religious authorities were active in allowing or condemning and penalizing different forms and actors of leisure consumption and entertainment. During the Byzantine and Classical Ottoman periods, the mediating role of religious authorities was complemented by intellectuals and chroniclers who had key impacts on shaping and influencing the tastes of consumers. Byzantine intellectuals and chroniclers had a critical role in evaluating the “value” of various performative arts, including musical entertainment. In some periods, they spoke of the dance “as a veritable ‘craze’- morbus” (Lawler 1946, 246), in others, they claimed that “pantomimic dancing was not included in the public competitions, as being too high and solemn for criticism” (Lawler 1946, 244). From the Byzantine to the Classical Ottoman periods, the management of diversity worked along “ethnic” lines—mostly as administratively and socio-culturally sustained

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boundaries. The vocational organization of entertainers under various categories was implemented by taking ethno-religious clusters as the basis, and this was an element of continuity in both periods. In the Byzantine period, “ethnic” Greeks were mostly among the top tier of entertainers, while “ethnically different” Roma were either placed on top (“higher-brow”) as skilled “exotics” or at the bottom as slapstick (“lower-brow”) entertainers. There was an increasing weight of “ethnic” diversity during the Classical Ottoman period, chiefly because of the Ottoman millet system (İnalcık 1997, passim)—the administrative ethno-confessional clustering of groups within the empire. This type of ethnic division of labor became more complex and was also entangled with the lonca (trade guilds) system. With the continued impact of Byzantine regulatory practices and the additional impacts of the Ottoman millet and lonca systems, musical entertainments were social arenas whereby different “ethnic” or “ethno-religious” groups were channeled into the specific vocations and provisions of various musical entertainment services. Various types of regulation were similar to the Byzantine and helped shape and effectively “ethnicize” leisure consumption and entertainment. Directly ordered by fatwa or Islamically motivated imperial decrees, governmental regulation granted the rights to sell alcoholic beverages, engage in prostitution, dancing, performing stage arts and most leisure consumption and entertainment-oriented forms, only to the non-Muslim (gayrimüslim) groups whose religious precepts allowed practices such as these which were sinful for Muslims (Sevengil 1998, 20–21). Reform Ottoman Istanbul: The Nineteenth Century–1920 In this period, the regulatory role of the state in musical entertainment continued. While previous, state-centered concerns such as exhibiting imperial prestige and wealth, sustaining social boundaries and promoting allegiance in the populace remained, an important novelty was the introduction of administrative, regulatory, as well as cultural policies of Westernization, modernization and rationalization (Tekeli 2010, passim). Religious authorities as well as mediators also played important roles in bridging the supply of and demand for musical entertainment. With their direct regulatory impact receding due to Westernization and modernization, the religious authorities instead clang onto their social role as mediators—morally approving or disapproving new, modern, leisure consumption, and entertainment trends. Noting that since the Reform period, alafranga attitudes and consumption styles became more fashionable (Çoruk 1995, 44). Alafranga was derived from an Italian word, alla franca, denoting initially-ridiculed, imitative styles by the modernizing Ottoman middle-classes or the rich copying European Frenk (literally, “Frank” or “French,” denoting “all things Western”) bathroom habits and technologies, and later, a wide range of etiquette and cultural consumption patterns (Özer 2006, 24). The splits between European-style cafés (or, alafranga kahvehane—coffeehouses) and traditional (alaturka) kahvehane, or between çalgılı meyhâne—or kafeşantan—and neighborhood meyhâne (Zat 2008) were indicative of the alafranga–alaturka division. The development of the çalgılı meyhâne, that is, the winehouse (with musical instruments) was also a key force behind the rise of the kafeşantan (café-chantant, or the singing cafés associated more closely with the Belle Epoque France) (Arkan 1998). Similarly, gazino (a

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word adapted from casino, but referring to an entertainment establishment with music and dance shows) developed as a new form incorporating elements of cabaret and vaudeville. The reform period’s intellectuals as well as modernizing media took on new roles as part of a “harder” mediation, by promoting the acceptable cultural forms of consumption and fortifying the grand split between alafranga and alaturka, the symbolic rift separating those endorsing western styles (alafranga) and native, traditional, local ones. Intellectuals, and various publications including books and the press, in this sense, were critically important in trying to dictate what the society should do in terms of modernizing itself. The results stand as a mix of success and failure. We also see in the same period, the increasing impact of other forms of regulation, such as those stemming from foreign embassies. Especially balo (ball or ballroom dancing), organized mainly by European embassies, luxury hotels or high-class entertainment establishments, provided important elite entertainment spaces for both women and men (Aytar and Keskin 2003, 31). In this sense, both the reformist sultans—who also fiercely supported performing arts and music, not to mention their ostentatious parades on the main boulevards to reach the venues (Akın 2002, 111)—and the foreign embassies were sources of demand, as well as of regulation. They allowed, organized, created or channeled demand for public events which they symbolically or materially supported. Also in the mid1850s, ferry services began between the coasts of the Bosphorus. In the private yet publicserving ferries refreshments and food were sold, and on some trips bands were hired to play for the passengers (Akın 2002, 26). With the advent of European-inspired entertainment novelties such as kafeşantan, gazino, kulüp or balo, formerly stronger public separations between men and women started to erode, and women too became consumers of musical entertainment. The establishments of Pera, İstanbul’s Westernized quarter, catered to a mixed customer base. Apart from eating, drinking, singing, and dancing establishments and venues, theaters were modernized and Westernized with the introduction of jolly kanto sing-and-dance shows (derived from Italian cantare, or singing) by female performers (Hiçyılmaz 1999, 41). While most female theater performers and kanto dancers were Armenian or Greek, some Muslim women took the stage under non-Muslim pseudonyms or aliases. For example, Ms. Kadriye took up the Greek “screen name” Amelya and had apparently “successfully convinced the spectators that her [non-Muslim-sounding] accent was genuine” (Hiçyılmaz 1999, 9, emphasis added). Kanto shows did not only imply transgressions of gender separation rules but were also instructive for a sexualizing and Occidentalizing gaze upon the non-Muslim women employed. Hiçyılmaz notes that such shows became hugely popular not because of their “artistic” content, but because of the opportunity they provided for the customers to “see scantily-dressed women dancing and singing” (1999). Indeed, I argue that this sexualizing, Occidentalizing gaze has been a continuous feature of leisure and entertainment consumption, as we will see later on during the Republican era. One important point is worth noting: Kanto also illustrates the “hybridity” between alaturka and alafranga forms. Meriç argues that kanto should be seen as a crossover between the two, in the sense that it “combined a western form with an eastern content” (2011, 56). Indeed, Sevengil similarly describes kanto shows as a “farce of confusion” (Sevengil 1998, 143).

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During the Reform Ottoman period, then, with the institution of constitutional citizenship and formal equality between Muslims and non-Muslims, lonca and millet-based stratifications as well as state and religious regulatory bans and limitations were eased. Reform laws and changing societal attitudes allowed Muslims to become more active in the entertainment sector, and this situation helped the flourishing of more flexibility in crossingsover between different groups of entertainers. “Ethnicization” worked also at different levels and under different dynamics: Ethnic difference started to serve different functions in terms of consuming the “Other.” A grand split between the alafranga and alaturka forms symbolized the advent of “Occidentalism” whereby Western forms were elevated to a higher level, and through which non-Muslims were made a different sort of “Others” and were thus assigned to one side of a supposedly civilizational rift. Republican Istanbul: 1920–1980 In the early Republican period between 1920 and 1950, thus after the establishment of the Turkish Republic under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the State’s role shifted from mere reformism to a radical implementation of Westernizing, modernizing, and rationalizing policies. The Turkified new nation and its masses were to be trained to find their own dormant, almost naturalized potentials. They were also to be trained in order to teach them to appreciate the high cultural taste of Western forms of leisure consumption and entertainment. Duman (1997, 43) notes that in the Republican period, ballroom dancing particularly gained a more “programmatic” character and argues that for the Kemalist project, it was used as an “ideological tool.” Öztürkmen, quoting Mina Urgan’s memoirs on ballroom dancing events, argues that during the early Republican period, “such entertainment activities were not even about entertaining oneself. It was rather a way of keeping the society together . . .” (Öztürkmen 1998, 181). The participation and visibility of women was particularly important: “Military and civilian bureaucrats were determined to break down the age-old, parochial traditions and women had a special role in the revolutions [. . .] Ballroom dancing was used as instruments to erase off old habits and establishing new values” (Duman 1997, 44). As these examples suggest, ballroom dancing as a modern entertainment form was promoted heavily by programmatic, administrative fiat, but compliance with its “etiquette” was not automatic. Espousing Western dress and behavioral codes as well as learning to enjoy new music forms, Turkish merchant and industrial bourgeoisie and middle classes received an effective “training” in the officially-decreed cultural repertoire. Duman notes that after Atatürk requested that various ministries, governorships, and the local branches of the ruling single-party, the CHP, organize ballroom dancing “where men and women would join in together,” there was a flurry of private courses and tutors teaching ballroom and other types of social dancing to “elite families” (Duman 1997, 46). The following period, opening up with multi-party democracy in 1950 and continuing until 1980, was marked by the rise of mass consumption in Turkey and implied a transformation of the role of regulation (Keyder 1999). In this second period when rural to urban migration accelerated, regulators moved away from unbending ideological enforcers of top-down cultural policies, towards being more “technical bureaucrats” conditioned by

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Figure 1.1 Balo Gazetesi (Ballroom Gazette) in 1941 Depicts Well-Known Journalists, Columnists, and Editors as Part of the Fictional “Jazz Band of the Press”

populist policies in line with multi-party parliamentary democracy. While the central regulators clung to their formal, authoritarian façade, they developed a more relaxed attitude, letting various informalities sprout in practice. The mediators initially mostly followed through the heritage of the Reform Ottoman period in terms of promoting Westernization as the most important tendency, but also by transforming this tendency into a mandatory programme of top-down cultural modernization. Meditators in this period were thus “harder” in their zeal as well as their powers, aided by their monopoly over society and sustained by Kemalist fiat. In the period between 1950 and 1980, the role of mediators altered significantly. The mediators were fragmented along political lines and the socio-cultural attitudes they were promoting.

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Under Kemalism, one of the most important dynamics of ethnicization had to do with the changing “ethnic” composition of leisure consumption and entertainment providers. In line with state-led Turkification of the economy (Koraltürk 2011), the musical entertainment laborscape was increasingly “Turkified.” Buğra notes that with the encouragement of the Kemalist state, Muslim and Turkish entrepreneurs took over the businesses of nonMuslims obliged to leave the country after the 1920s and 1930s (Buğra 2010, 42). A study by Bilgin and Eda Ünlü Yücesoy (2010) clearly illustrates that between 1920 and 1950, more than 60 percent of non-Muslim businesses were replaced by Turks and other Muslims in Istanbul. Onaran (2012) argues that the replacement—or what he calls pillaging—of non-Muslim properties by Turks started earlier, in 1915, with the displacement and ethnic cleansing of Armenians. Koraltürk (2011, 252) gives rich evidence that this replacement applied not only to the owners of the businesses or the entrepreneurs but also to the labor force. According to Law no. 2007 dated 1932 on the Vocations and Services Assigned to Turkish Citizens in Turkey, together with another few dozen occupations, “non-Turks were banned from working as bar musicians, instrumentalists, waitresses and servicemen or servicewomen at coffeehouses, gazinos, dancing and bars” (Koraltürk 2011, 277). Aktar (2006, 118–125) notes that this law and other regulations specifically targeted White Russians who were not Turkish nationals, but also affected Greeks and other nonMuslims who actually held Turkish citizenship. In the backdrop of such heavy-handed regulatory policies, most non-Muslim leisure and entertainment entrepreneurs and employees either left the country or left the business. Some others chose to formally transfer the ownership of their businesses to their Turkish and Muslim apprentices while keeping informal control of management. While others gradually transferred their skills to their Turkish and Muslim apprentices and eventually sold their businesses to them (Arkan 1998, 24). Outside of the programmatic cultural policy of Westernization, there were also new groups who were not readily adapting themselves to Westernized forms of leisure consumption and entertainment, or were launching interesting hybrid syntheses of alafranga and alaturka. When rural-based businessmen flooded into Istanbul to replace the nonMuslims, their crude behavior was ridiculed in novels, newspaper articles, and so forth from the 1930s through the 1950s (Öncü 1997). Indeed, Boratav (1981, 228–229) notes that in the 1930s, in numerous “Beyoğlu gazinos, where Anatolian ballads were interpreted, female singers and dancers dressed in ‘rural’ dresses were singing and mixing Rumba with [Central Anatolian city] Konya’s famous kaşık [spoon] folk dance.” Such rurally originated rich landlords were given the blanket name of hacıağa and were ethnicized by the mediators as well as the gaze of the mainstream. Hacı means a Mecca pilgrim and ağa (agha) means a provincial “feudal landlord.” Hacıağa’s provincial roots were purportedly making them easy prey for various types of scams by the newly Turkified leisure consumption and entertainment entrepreneurs. Their religious roots were seen as a further aspect to be ridiculed given their supposed hunger for extramarital affairs and encounters with female escorts and prostitutes. Cantek argues that the caricaturized model of hacıağa became the roots of the later development of other ethnicized misfits such as Hıdır, Kırro or Hırbo (Cantek 2008, 247). Hacıağa and

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their purportedly un-urbanized and un-civilized ways provided room for their ethnicization as crude Anatolian [male] individuals unfit for Westernized Turkish society. Processes of diversity and ethnicity at play were largely underwritten by two key societal dynamics that marked the period between 1950 and 1980, namely: 1) Rural to urban migration and increasing rates of urbanization as well as out-migration to Germany and other countries, and 2) the continuing and dramatically-accelerating decimation of nonMuslim ethnic minorities. These two major transformations shaped new diversities— including ethnic diversity. Accelerating rural to urban migration after the 1960s, coupled with a rate of population increase which was one of the highest in the world (Kıray 1998), created conditions for rapid urbanization, increasing urban population, and urban transformation and change. In this context, the setting for leisure and entertainment changed. Most migrants converged around new residential settlements such as the informal neighborhoods on the periphery of Istanbul, called gecekondu. Devoid of most social or municipal services, including effective and accessible forms of public transport, the shared taxi (or dolmuş) served these neighborhoods. Stokes (1992) claims that the gecekondu and dolmuş were two loci for arabesk music, which challenged many of the conventions of the Republic’s dominant cultural policies. The arabesk-playing neighborhood meyhâne (literally means “house of fermented drinks” in Farsi language, but in the Ottoman-Turkish context it is a drinking establishment where anise-seed based rakı is the staple drink) and kafe-bar (adapted from café-bar, a form of drinking establishment) were among the new locations catering for this demand. Usually entrepreneurs were also new migrants, or Turks or Muslims who had started out from lower positions in the meyhane business elsewhere. Arabesk and its associated spaces of entertainment such as the pavyon (a drinking and entertainment establishment, with music shows and female escorts, catering to a predominantly male clientele) taverna (adapted from tavern, a form of drinking establishment, usually with live music), neighborhood meyhâne, and gece kulübü (night club) in this sense, developed from within this social atmosphere of new diversity. The development of arabesk as a cultural stampede of sorts seems to have produced two outcomes for the way diversity can be imagined: First, it implied a powerful, informal challenge to the Kemalist cultural fiat where a combination of recast alaturka and alafranga characterized the general orientation of cultural modernization. Refuting such top-down promotion and cultural modernization, arabesk fostered a totally different “essence” of sorts that catered to the previously migrant, now new urban poor. Second, with the rise of arabesk, in mainstream mechanisms of mediation, figure a gecekondu-living—literally, “(tenement) built overnight” it denotes informal settlements around the periphery of the urban areas, most chiefly since 1960s—dolmuş-riding (or driving), arabesk-listening urban poor as the new “Other.” This is the “Other” vis-à-vis mainstream middle-class society whose consumption styles were mostly coded by the conventions of populist national developmental rather than the orthodoxies associated with the earlier period. Still, in a less ideological and less morally-condemning tone, in movies, the provincial backgrounds of the new urbanites were caricaturized by the use of funny-

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sounding local dialects of Turkish, while the use of Kurdish or any other languages was carefully avoided. This selective ethnicization prompts the argument that the political sensitivities and rigidities of Kemalism remained considerably intact while regulation had become more relaxed in allowing the sprouting of numerous “acceptable” or minor informalities. Conclusions Finally, I should note that the study of each period demonstrates that diversity is among the indispensable building blocks of the social “tenement” where musical entertainment resided during the historical period I have covered here. As such a key element, diversity appeared beneath various layers of clothing, either with confessional, ethno-religious, class or status-group based textures. Musical entertainment took on the role of providing consumers with various types of “others” with whom they could pair up for their journey. Within the spaces of leisure consumption and musical entertainment, they certainly found such people. Also, as conduits of purgative self-expression, entertainment establishments were the right locations to get to know and socialize with authentic, exotic, and erotic others. These types of socializations and the regulatory frame within which they are embedded are at once the occasions and places to fortify, underline, challenge or even transgress boundaries between many forms of the “self” or “us” and “others” or “them.” Acknowledgement This article is based on my PhD thesis at the University of Amsterdam. Special thanks to Prof. Jan Rath from the University of Amsterdam. Bibliography Akın, Nur. 2002. 19. yüzyılın ikinci yarısında Galata ve Pera [Galata and Pera in the second half of the 19th century]. Istanbul: Literatür. Aktar, Ayhan. 2006. Türk milliyetçiliği, gayrimüslimler ve ekonomik dönüşüm [Turkish nationalism, non-muslims and economic transformation]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Arkan, Özdemir (Kaptan). 1998. Beyoğlu: Kısa geçmişi, argosu [Beyoğlu: Its short past and slang]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Aytar, Volkan, and Keskin, Azer. 2003. “Constructions of Spaces of Music in Istanbul: Scuffling and Intermingling Sounds in a Fragmented Metropolis.” Géocarrefour 78 (2): 147–157. Bilgin, İhsan and Eda Ünlü Yücesoy, eds. 2010. Istanbul 1910–2010: City, Built Environment and Architectural Culture—Exhibition Book. Istanbul: Istanbul 2010 European Capital of Culture Agency and Istanbul Bilgi University Press. Boratav, Korkut. 1981. Tarımsal yapılar ve kapitalizm [Agricultural structures and capitalism]. Istanbul: Birikim Yayınları. Braudel, Fernand. 1958. “Histoire et Sciences Sociales: La Longue Durée.” Annales ESC 13 (4): 725–753. Buğra, Ayşe. 2010. Devlet ve işadamları [State and business people]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Cantek, Levent. 2008. Cumhuriyetin büluğ çağı [Adolescence of the republic]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Çoruk, Ali Rüştü. 1995. Cumhuriyet devri türk romanında beyoğlu [Beyoğlu in Turkish novels of the republican period]. Istanbul: Kitabevi. ——. 2001. Balıkhane nazırı Ali Rıza Bey’in eski zamanlarda İstanbul hayatı [Life in Istanbul in the old times by the fisheries minister, Ali Rıza Bey]. Istanbul: Kitabevi. Duman, Doğan. 1997. “Cumhuriyet baloları.” [Republican ballroom dances.] Toplumsal tarih 7 (37): 44–48.

Legacies, Continuities, and Breaks • 33 Durak, Koray. 2010. “Bizans’ta saltanat merasimleri.” [Imperial ceremonies in Byzantium.] In Kültürler başkenti İstanbul [Istanbul the capital of civilizations] edited by Fahamettin Başar, 108–109. Istanbul: Türk Kültürüne Hizmet Vakfı ve İstanbul 2010 Avrupa Kültür Başkenti Ajansı Yayını. Garland, Lynda. 2006. “Street Life in Constantinople: Women and the Carnivalesque.” In Byzantine Women: Varieties of Experience, AD 800–1200, edited by Lynda Garland, 163–76. Hampshire: Aldershot Publishing. Hiçyılmaz, Ergun. 1999. İstanbul geceleri ve kantolar [Istanbul nights and kantos]. Istanbul: Sabah Kitapları. Hopkins, Terence K. 1982. “World-System Analysis: Methodological Issues.” In World-System Analysis: Theory and Methodology, edited by Terence K. Hopkins and Immanuel Wallerstein, 145–158. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Pub. İnalcık, Halil, ed. 1997. Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. İstanbul Ansiklopedisi. 1994. “Eğlence hayatı.” [Entertainment life.] In İstanbul ansiklopedisi [Encyclopedia of Istanbul] 4: 140–144. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Keyder, Çağlar, ed. 1999. Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local. Boulder, CO: Rowman & Littlefield. Kıray, Mübeccel. 1998. Değişen toplum yapısı [Changing social structure]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yay. Koraltürk, Murat. 2011. Erken cumhuriyet döneminde ekonominin Türkleştirilmesi [Turkification of the economy during the early republican period]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Lawler, Lillian B. 1946. “The Portrait of a Dancer.” The Classical Journal 41(6): 241–247. Meriç, Murat. 2011. “Cumhuriyet dönemi İstanbul eğlence hayatına bir bakış.” [A look at Istanbul entertainment life during the republican period.] In İstanbul’da eğlence [Entertainment in İstanbul] edited by Volkan Aytar and Kübra Parmaksızoğlu, 55–68. Istanbul: Istanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları. Miles, Steven. 1998. Consumerism as a Way of Life. London: Sage. Onaran, Nevzat. 2012. Osmanlı’da Ermeni ve Rum mallarının Türkleştirilmesi (1914–1919) [Turkification of Armenian and Greek properties under the Ottomans]. Istanbul: Evrensel Yayınları. Öncü, Ayşe. 1997. “The Myth of the Ideal Home Travels across Cultural Borders to Istanbul.” In Space, Culture, Power: New Identities in Globalizing Cities, edited by Ayşe Öncü and Petra Weyland, 56–72. London: ZED Books. Özer, İlbeyi. 2006. Osmanlı’dan Cumhuriyet’e yaşam ve moda [Life and fashion from the Ottomans to the Republic]. Istanbul: Truva Yayınları. Öztürkmen, Arzu. 1998. “Zamanı eylemek, eğlenmek: Cumhuriyet dönemi eğlence biçimlerini yeniden düşünmek.” [Passing time, getting entertained: Rethinking republican forms of entertainment.] In 75 yılda değişen yaşam, değişen insan: Cumhuriyet modaları, edited by Oya Baydar and Derya Özkan, 179–191. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Rath, Jan, ed. 2007. Tourism, Ethnic Diversity and the City. New York and London: Routledge. Said, Edward. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Random House. Sevengil, Refik Ahmet. 1998. [1927]. İstanbul nasıl eğleniyordu? [How did Istanbul get entertained?]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Stokes, Martin. 1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tekeli, İlhan. 2010. Türkiye’de kent planlama ve kent araştırmaları tarihi yazıları [Writings on urban planning and urban research history in Turkey]. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Tez, Zeki. 2009. Gündelik yaşam ve eğlencenin kültürel tarihi [A cultural history of everyday life and entertainment]. Istanbul: Doruk Yayınları. Zat, Vefa. 2008. Biz rakı içeriz: Rakının dünü ve bugünü [We drink rakı: Rakı–yesterday and today]. Istanbul: Overteam Yayınları.

2 Entertainment Spaces, Genres, and Repertoires in Ottoman Musical Life Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

In the Ottoman Empire, entertainment was organized in such a way that events would include a number of performances intended for a number of occasions and performed in a variety of spaces. As the centre of the Ottoman administration from the fifteenth century on, Istanbul had also become the centre of entertainment. Prior to the fifteenth century, similar types of entertainment existed in different imperial centers. However, starting in the early sixteenth century, new cultural spaces and relationships emerged as a result of Istanbul’s economic growth and affected the city’s entertainment practices, which now reflected the increasing interactions of the Empire with its neighbours. Which means that this period marks the start of an imperial style of entertainment that was eclectic and which reigned for several centuries. The center of the Ottoman Empire in Istanbul was the Topkapı Palace. Because of the multi-ethnic and multi-religious nature of the Empire, Ottoman entertainment styles and spaces were diverse, as Ekrem Işın puts it apropos of Istanbul’s historical and cultural heritage: All of the values that were incorporated into Istanbul’s cultural circulation are the collective product of the social groups that constantly transmitted knowledge, skill and manners into the capillary vessels that nourished urban life . . . those who claimed this plural urban identity set up and patronized the spaces where they could share the values they produced. (Işın 2001, 281) The answer to the question “what were the spaces of entertainment?” is undoubtedly vast. This chapter will take up the question of entertainment as its practice and notion developed in the Ottoman Palace of Topkapı. It will focus on the period between the seventeenth and twentieth centuries for its analysis of entertainment traditions based on types and spaces.

36 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

Entertainment, Place, Popular Culture, Production Look men, I am the festivities officer. I am responsible for correcting the lacks and deficiencies of the festivities. I sacrificed my sleep and comfort for you. Is your indulgence complete? Don’t you leave anything in the way of fun! May beauties tailed like the Karaman mouton and looking like a young lamb never leave your arms. Always enforce friendship and the sweet conversation that flows from lips to lips so that you don’t confuse this time with another. Sell your clothes dearly or cheaply and spend it all on fun; make me proud. My wish and aim is to get you used to joy and fun and let you take a good beating after the end of the donanma (Festive illumination) Festival! (Sevengil 1998, 59)

An analysis focused on popular culture and entertainment in the Ottoman Empire cannot be thought independently of the above transmission of a moment during the ten-day- and night-long donanma (the festival organized by Sultan Mustafa III on the occasion of the birth of his daughter [1772–1773]). Leaving aside how entertainment changed over time in terms of space, content, and socio-political import, the most general perspective offered by the quote is the idea of entertainment as relaxing and experiencing a moment not proscribed by the social and spatial discourse abided by in everyday life. Everyday subjects and acts that are repressed/limited/forbidden also find legitimate ground in entertainment settings. On the one hand, the metaphor of “let you take a beating” refers to the hard conditions of social life to be faced once the festivities are over. On the other hand, the principle of “not letting anything get in the way of fun” is at once about the display of the power of the State, and the people carrying out their duty to enjoy themselves. Whereas the people are responsible for ensuring that temporary release takes place and for legitimizing cultural life itself, the State has the duty to provide the environment for the event and it is obscured to strengthen the bonds of notables to State power via the ranking system the State bestows. This is how the State displays its power. Refik Ahmet Sevengil supports this point: Viziers with sycophantic souls organize a festival to ingratiate themselves with the Sultan; the poor people, unaware of the size the wound that the expense of the entertainment opens in the State budget, envy the viziers, the rich and the gentiles, all while participating in the festivities. (Sevengil 1998, 57) Hence the people constituted a functional base as intermediaries in the display of power. The classical Ottoman idea of entertainment can be classified into two main categories: First, conservative and self-enclosed festive events attended by family members and neighborhood communities. Second, homo-social events, also stemming from a conservative lifestyle, where the entertainers and the entertained had to be of the same sex. Nonetheless, it can be more useful to differentiate on the basis of the space and the time of the entertainment, rather than its participants, in order to understand the social relations involved with a given space and its place at the heart of popular culture. If we accept that space is a social product (Lefebvre 1991), it becomes possible to observe clearly the relations

Entertainment in Ottoman Musical Life • 37

of production in spaces organized for entertainment in intimate relation to the social relations of reproduction in Ottoman society. The types of entertainment outlined in Tables 2.1 and 2.2 can be classified into two categories: 1.

2.

Festive events (completely outside everyday routine), şenlikler (sing. şenlik) (festivals), alaylar (sing. alay) (parades), and bayramlar (sing. bayram) (holidays). These spaces were designed to exist in a time organized outside everyday life. Daily felicitations and gatherings (outside everyday routine), promenade festivities, and special meetings. These spaces were designed to be firmly situated inside everyday life.

Şenlikler were festive events designed with fantastic fictional elements and included in a special program outside the time and space of regular life. They existed in the Ottoman cultural sphere from the fifteenth century and constituted the most popular type of entertainment between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. They generally took place in the context of royal rituals such as marriage ceremonies and circumcision ceremonies (Sur-i Humayun) and the births of princes and princesses (veladet/donanma nights). Just as in European Medieval and Renaissance culture, the festivals in the Ottoman Empire “resorted to satirizing the hierarchical social structure in order to soften its effects and keep it at an acceptable level” (Faroqhi 2005, 190). Historical records show that şenlikler were organized from the fifteenth century. They usually took place in outdoor spaces—urban squares, streets, and royal gardens. There would always be music and dance in the program as well as satire under the verbal genres of meddahlık (public storytelling), hayal perdesi (shadow theater), and ortaoyunu (traditional theater of eulogy). As vehicles of speech, these forms of storytelling legitimized otherwise unutterable criticism under the cloak of the artistic form. Nevertheless, these moments were under not outside of the reach of sovereign power and were limited in so far as they belonged to the genre of comedy. Alaylar were festive events similar to şenlikler. They were organized to mark a number of royal and popular occasions such as a military victory or the departure and arrival of a sultan from a military campaign. They equally took place in the context of public rituals such as funerals and weddings and the annual exhibitions of the guilds. Alaylar have existed at least since the fifteenth century and took place in the vicinity of the Palace, designated parade areas or city squares. When a parade was officially related to the State apparatus, the music would be dominated by the mehter (Janissary military band) and religious genres, and the main participants were the Palace protocol and guest statesmen. The alaylar that had to with social rituals were more popular in terms of the entertainment they offered; fasıl (pl. fasıllar) sessions (small, intimate orchestras or bands), mehter music, and rakkas (male dancing) usually accompanied the celebrations. As in other types of entertainment, alaylar were one of the Ottoman state-controlled programs. For example, “When the Sultan and the high officials decide that a craftsmen’s parade will be organized, it is the political power that decides on the basic outline of this event much more so than the craftsmen who organize it” (Faroqhi 2005, 177). Religious feasts were popular forms of entertainment with a fixed calendar known ahead of time. In Ottoman times, two such celebrations where entertainment was at the forefront

Şehrayin (Festivities) and Donanma (Illuminated celebrations)

Musician, dancer, sports

Seventeenth to nineteenth century

City squares, streets, royal births, returning from expeditions, welcoming ceremonies for foreign dignitaries

Palace and city people

Fireworks, fire performance, music, parades

Genre

Entertainer

Popular Period

Space and Time

Audience

Repertory

Table 2.1 Daily Festive Events

City squares, Tahtakale (an Istanbul neighborhood)

From the sixteenth century

Illusionist, acrobat, bottle master, jug master

Circuses

Palace and city people

The Palace, promenades, coffeehouses, mansions

From the fifteenth century

Chess, fire performances, wrestling, cirit (javelin), horse racing

Sports and Games

Palace protocol, visiting foreign dignitaries Mehter (Janissary military band) music, fasıl (classical Turkish songs), religious music

The Palace environs, ceremonial grounds, squares

Selamlık Alayı (the Sultan’s Friday prayer Procession) Zafer Alayı (a victory parade), Gelin Alayı (a wedding-bride parade) Nahıl Alayı (a ceremonial installation), Beşik Alayı (a princess’s birth parade), Cenaze Alayı (a funeral parade), Esnaf Alayı (Tradesmen’s parade) From the fifteenth century

Alaylar (processions/ parades)

Solemn processional, music

City people

From the nineteenth century Promenades, squares, bazaars

Tradesmen’s processions

Tradesmen’s Festivities

Music, literature, visual performances

From the sixteenth century Squares, Direklerarası (an important commercial meeting area in the Fatih district of Istanbul) Palace and city people

Ramadan (Muslims)

Sacred Holidays

Music, dance and alcohol

Ethnic Greeks

From the eighteenth century The streets of Beyoğlu and Kurtuluş (central Istanbul districts)

Apukurya (Orthodox Greeks)

Candle lighting, fasıl, dances

Fasıl, dances

Taverns, mansions, promenades

Repertory

Streets, promenades, Palace gardens

Space and Time

From the sixteenth century

Palace and city people

Tulip period

Popular Period

Ab Alemleri (Drinking Parties)

Participants/ Palace and Audience city people

Lale (Tulip) Festivities

Genre

Table 2.2 Daily Entertainments and Festivals

Fasıl, poetry, conversation, halva feasts

Palace and city people

The Palace, mansions, promenades (winter)

Tulip period

Halwa Conversations

Full-moon gazing, conversation, dances and music

Palace and city people

The Palace, mansions (spring)

Tulip period

Çereğan (Palace) festivities

Rowing-boat trips, music, dances, food, fire performances

Palace and city people

The Bosphorus (spring, full-moon nights)

Tulip period and during Selim III’s reign

Mehtap (full-moon) Festivities

Music, poetry, conversation, strolls, rowing-boat trips

Palace and city people

Sadabad mansion, Sadabad promenades (spring and summer)

Tulip period

Sadabad (one of Istanbul’s palaces) Festivities

Conversation, music, dances, chess, food, fire performances

End of sixteenth century to beginning of the twentieth century The Istanbul districts of Kağıthane, Çayırbaşı, Çamlıca, Fenerbahçe, Haydarpaşa, Kayışdağı, Bağlarbaşı, Kavacık, Göksu, Çubuklu, Beykoz, Haliç, Bayrampaşa, Hasköy, (spring & summer Palace and city people

Promenade Festivities

From the sixteenth century

Animal Trainers

Conversation, strolls, gossip

Harem women

Cock, ram and camel fighting organizers; donkey, bear and monkey charmers

The Palace’s Squares private garden, promenades

From the sixteenth century

Halwet (sweets) Meetings

Food, conversation

Statesmen, civil servants, rich people

Gambling clubs, casinos

End of the nineteenth century

Gambling

40 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

were the Islamic Eid al-Fıtr and the Greek Orthodox Apukuria. Eid al-Fıtr celebrations existed in the Ottoman cultural sphere from the sixteenth century, corresponding to the three days following the end of the month of Ramadan. These involved collective visits, the parading of the Palace protocol, and public speeches. The legendary Direklerarası festivities that developed in relation to the post-Tanzimat theatrical phenomenon that has Western influence more than the past, continued not just on Eid al-Fıtr days but through the entire month of Ramadan. The entertainers of these festivities were the kantocular (cabaret chanteuses), tiyatrocular (theater actors), and meddahlar (public storytellers/ mimics). In the case of Apukuria, it was organized by the Greek community before Lent during February, and it consisted of a three-week long festivity that included music, dance, and drinking. The types of entertainment falling under the heading of daily felicitations and gatherings such as special meetings or promenade festivals comprised all the gatherings that were not festive events. Examples were lantern, full moon, and Sadabad celebrations, tulip days, waterside picnics, halva conversations, promenades, halvet (private all-female gatherings), harem gatherings, animal fights, and dances, sports events, circuses, and gambling. The entertainment activities in this heading were closely related to the changes in the social and political life of the times. For example, tulip days were a springtime activity that became fashionable in the eighteenth century and involved long conversations while admiring the beauty of the tulip gardens that were all over Istanbul. The gardens were lit by candlelight as music and dance supplemented the merriments. Lantern and full-moon festivities as well as Sadabad celebrations were also Spring and Summer events that became popular during the Tulip period and involvedadmiring, conversation, music, and dance. Promenade celebrations were held in large grassy areas and involved conversation, music, and dance. They first became popular in the sixteenth century, reaching the height of their popularity in the eighteenth century. In addition, activities such as gambling became part of social life towards the end of nineteenth century and gambling establishments were first opened under the guise of friendship-bonding clubs. Events such as the ab (drink with or without alcohol) gatherings were able to survive, depending on State-imposed bans and limitations. For example, in the seventeenth century these gatherings were held without alcohol due to the then ban on tobacco, coffee, and alcohol in coffeehouses. With the easing of alcohol consumption in the eighteenth century they became popular (Sevengil 1998). Halvet gatherings and harem bashes were held among the harem-dwelling women of the Palace. Halva conversations were usual indoor activities of the winter months. From a spatial viewpoint, festivities were divided into the primary categories of indoor and outdoor. Examples of indoor spaces were meyhaneler (taverns), coffeehouses, the Palace, and theaters. Outdoor spaces were Palace gardens, promenades, urban squares, and streets. Whether spaces were determined as indoors or outdoors depended on the qualities and timing of the entertainment in question. For example, while festivities extended into squares and the city itself, promenade entertainments took place in parks because of their focus on walking and sightseeing. Drinking parties (ab alemi) could be combined with full-moon festivities during promenades as well as taking place in pubs and coffeehouses.

Entertainment in Ottoman Musical Life • 41

However, the determination, design, and programing of space that was contingent on the milieu of entertainment had the function of reproducing social relations. For example, when otherwise privately held musical gatherings in the harem were organized in such a way that city people could participate, the private space of the State temporarily transformed into an ordinary social space. By welcoming the public into the otherwise strictly forbidden space of the harem, the State reflected the relationship between the aristocracy and the people while displaying its power and glory. As everyday, normative spaces such as squares and Palace gardens were turned into fantastic spaces such as festivity tents, specially tailored for festive events, the moral rules of the Palace were bent (Faroqhi 2005, 191). This, in turn, reproduced the meaning that legitimized social repression. The fact that pavilions were specifically built for important guests such as the harem women to watch the festivities, shows that sovereign power was the deciding party in the control and construction of festive space. The crystallization of the class division between the ruling elite and ordinary people in the eighteenth century also shows the reflection of a monopolistic mentality on festive settings. In this period, European classical music and the dances performed in the Palace entered the mansions of the rich. The hierarchy between the mansion owners, representing State power at the micro-level, and their servants represented the same ideal as the hierarchy between the Sultan and his entertainers during a royal festive event. The popularization of a European lifestyle in Istanbul during the second half of the nineteenth century directly affected the popularity of entertainment spaces and types. For example, whereas previously popular entertainment was to watch a light comedy, ortaoyunu, in a coffeehouse, this period saw the popularization of watching operas and plays in the newly-built theaters, clearly showing the influence of the changing political climate on popular entertainment. This is because Westernization, whose social arguments had been present since the eighteenth century, took the form of a European cultural model in the nineteenth century. Apart from Westernizing projects such as the royal marching-band, one of first examples of Western-style theater is the tuluat (improvisational) theater that found its home in the renowned Direklerarası neighborhood of Istanbul, which signaled the shift of Westernstyle of entertainment in enclosed spaces to one in open, public spaces in the heart of the city. It was also important because it reproduced the relations of toleration that could legitimize social norms. Additionally, the indispensable entertainers of Direklerarası, the kantocular (cabaret chanteuses) were nearly all non-Muslim. This in turn produced the meaning of being a woman, more specifically a conservative Muslim woman, in the social imagination through the cultural medium of the stage. Again, the opening of gazinolar (sing. gazino, in the sense of night clubs), the so called café-chantants (music halls), alcohol-serving restaurants, beer houses, and cabarets signaled the dominance of Western-style entertainment during this period. On the other hand, the ban on male dancers in the nineteenth century, a popular profession in coffeehouses and the Palace throughout the eighteenth century, aimed to lose the exotic quality attributed to the East. More importantly however, this ban showed the increasing social control over raks (dances), a widespread form of everyday entertainment.

42 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

Thus power relations that became embedded thanks to social control and the control of freedoms were not determined exclusively through spaces but also through the very forms of entertainment. Exaggeration abounds in entertainment settings—as grotesque as a dancer can be or as funny as a meddah—and is a reminder that freedom tends to conceal its repressed dimension. Popular Genres, Music, and Dance Repertoire Until the eighteenth century, the Ottoman Empire’s connections with its surrounding cultures, especially the Persian-Turkoman palaces, prompted performers and artists to travel throughout the larger region. It was this mobile quality that created very similar cultural forms in the Ottoman, Persian, North Indian, and Turkoman palaces and harems. With the Ottoman conquest of Istanbul, the Eastern capitals that had been centers of maqam music had relegated this role to Istanbul, which had become a new cultural center where Western and Eastern musicians met. The most important musical tradition of the Arab and Persian palaces we now call fasıl, a way of performing a number of different musical forms in a unitary form, constituted the principal musical tradition in cities and palaces from the ninth century on. Fasıllar had been performed in and around palaces in işret meclisleri (drinking parties) and helva sohbetleri (halva gatherings). Music and dance were inseparable in entertainment courts (meclis) and the dance repertoire that accompanies the fasıl or other kinds of musical meetings features the raksiye (seventeenth century) and köçekçe and tavşanca (eighteenth century). (See Table 2.3 for all genres.) Fasıl, Raksiye, and Köçekçeler Topkapı Palace was the home of the royal family as well as the meeting space of the royal entourage and the higher officials who lived in the Palace. İşret Meclisleri (royal feasts with wine arts and conversation) or Huzur Fasılları (appearances in the royal court) were kinds of entertainment gatherings held in the presence of the Sultan for the sole purpose of his entertainment. With the coming of the Tulip period and the building of summer palaces (kasır), these events could move to outdoor spaces. Similarly, women’s sohbetleri (halva gatherings) took place in the indoor spaces of mansions during the winter months and in gardens during the summer months. The fact that palatial festivities could be held in the presence of the sultan depended largely on the particular view with which a sultan regarded art, music, and literature. When a sultan was on a military campaign and absent from the Palace, artistic gatherings could be suspended. The only place where entertainment and artistic gatherings went on without interruption, and also where fasılar continued, was the Harem. Only the fasıl band of the içoğlanı çavuşları (pages’ sergeants) had 40 members. This number could go up to 70 on special occasions when important musical personalities of the city were invited to the fasıl gathering. The fasıllar organized during religious holidays were the largest ever held inside the Palace. As a separate category, küme faslı (cluster type fasıl) was a term used to describe the fasıl sessions in which official Palace musicians would play along with musicians from outside the Palace.

Wedding, — Picnic, Donanma (illumination) ceremonies

Palaces, Palaces, promenades, palace coffeehouses, garden taverns, lowly cabarets, mansions, palace garden

Rituals and Events

Space and Time

Dancers and musicians

Tavşan (rabbit)

Palace people

Classical Ottoman music, folk songs

Audience Palace and city people

Repertory Classical Ottoman music, dance tunes, folk songs

Köçekçes, Tavşancas, dance tunes, European waltzes by the period of III. Selim, polkas, bale by the Reform period.

Palace and city people Stories, comic imitations

Palace and city people

Direklerarası, coffeehouses, city squares, mansions, the Palace

From the seventeenth century

Meddah, Mukallid, Mudhik, Tulumcu (comic)

Shadow-play stories

Palace and city people and rural people

Direklerarası, coffeehouses, city squares, mansions, the palace

From the fourteenth century

Puppet masters

Daily-life stories

Palace and city people

Direklerarası, coffeehouses, city squares, mansions, the palace

From the seventeenth century

Kavuklu, Pişekar (Fixed characters)

Pişekar (the name of one of the characters)

Ortaoyunu (Traditional Ottoman Theatre)

Puppeteer Kavuklu (poplartree)

Shadow Plays

Mukallidlik Mudhiklik Karagöz (mimicry) (mockery) player

Popular Storytelling

Rakkas Meddahlık (pendu- (storylum) telling)

Palace, picnic areas, taverns, coffeehouses, all-male and all-female meetings, mansions, waqfs

All of secular rituals

Eighteenth– From the sixteenth century nineteenth centuries

From the fifteenth century

Popular Period

Musicians and singers

Çengi (dancing girls)

Raks (Dances)

Küme Köçek (groups) (camel Fasıls foal) (50–60 performers)

Musicians and singers

Ensembles (2 or more performers)

Music Gatherings/Fasıls

Entertainer

Genre

Table 2.3 Genres in Festive Events

Opera, Kanto Operetta, Pantomime

City people

Direklerarası, coffeehouses, café chantants, tavern, cabaret gazino

Feast, special Invitations

From the second half of ninteenth century

Actors, Cabaret chanteuses, Ortaoyunu actors

Tuluat (improvisational theatre)

Theatre

44 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

A varsağı (popular ballad) dated 1635 and composed by Evliya Çelebi’s music teacher and follower of the Gülşeni sect, Derviş Ömer, tells of a time when Evliya Çelebi was received by Sultan Murad IV and sang pieces in the segah, maye, and bestenigar makamlar. Evliya had established relations with the Palace on a number of occasions and claims to have entered the kiler odası (royal pantry). The fact that a poem by the Sultan was composed as a popular ballad and sung by an ordinary man along with other songs in the presence of the Sultan constitutes an interesting instance of Palace-society relations. Evliya Çelebi reports that on Saturday nights, Sultan Murad IV summoned ilahi (hymn) and na’t (eulogies to the Prophet Muhammed) reciters along with hanendeler (singers) and sazendeler (musicians) for conversational gatherings. We understand from this information that the function of the meşkhane (musical education and rehearsal room) was not limited to musical practices; it also included conversation and shared reflection on music. In the seventeenth century fasıl as a word and a genre was mentioned for the first time in these two different senses in two important sources that are crucial to the history of the notation of the Ottoman-Turkish musical repertoire. The first of these is the Mecmua-i Saz-ü Söz (The Book of Music and Lyrics) belonging to Wojciech Bobowski of Polish origin whose Muslim name was Ali Ufki Bey (1610?–1675?). The other, written around 60 years later, is the Kitâbu ‘İlmi’l-Mûsiki alâ Vechi’l-Hurûfât (Book of the Science of Musical Notation and Performance) by Dimitri Kantemir (1673–1723), otherwise known as Kantemiroğlu in the Ottoman world. Even though the repertoire performed in the fasıllar notated in the Mecmua-i Saz-ü Söz encompasses compositions played in and around the Palace, it included forms that were not formally part of the genre. This shows that the urban musical repertoire had hybrid characteristics in and around the Palace. Given that the people who lived there were not only royalty, we encounter in this book popular songs that were part of the janissary repertoire, and mehter pieces played by the mehteran band before and after military campaigns. Additionally, poetry and lyrics had an important place in the repertoires of işret meclisleri, huzur fasılları, and sohbetleri (gatherings). The raksiye (pl. raksiyeler) form that accompanies the rakkaslar (male dancers dressed as girls) dancing to fasıllar was an important part of these gatherings. Of the raksiyeler notated by Ali Ufki, the one composed in honor of Sultan Ibrahim, and those that were to be performed in the presence of other sultans, show the importance of this dance in royal gatherings. By all accounts, the entertainment life of the Empire reached its peak in palaces, kiosks, and mansions during the Tulip period. Many a foreign traveler, diplomat or diplomat’s spouse who had spent some time in Ottoman palaces or mansions recounted that music and dance were key ingredients of the entertainment settings, with which Ottoman sources concur. One of the important composers of this period was Tanburi Mustafa Çavuş. He was able to reflect the simplicity of the lyric element into the melodies in a way similar to the poets Nedim, Vehbi, and Raşit. This reflection of the lyrical simplicity into melody is crucial for seeing how the elements of entertainment life related to Palace life as well as the culture of ordinary city-dwellers. This is confirmed by the fact that Mustafa Çavuş composed the lyrics written for a dancing köçek (a male dancer dressed as a girl). This song “Dök zülfünü

Entertainment in Ottoman Musical Life • 45

meydane gel” is one of the best-known pieces of the contemporary Ottoman repertoire. It displays an intimate relation between word and melody as well as a melodic structure suited to dancing. Dök zülfünü meydana gel, / sür atını ferzane gel, / al daireni hengame gel, / bülbül senin, / Gülşen senin, / yar aman aman, / aşıkınım hayli zaman, / dil muntazır teşrifine, / gel aman. Let your side-locks down, / ride your horse to the meadow, / take your tambourine to the hubbub, / the nightingale is yours, / The rose-garden is yours, mercy love, / I have been enamored of you for a long time, / my soul waits your arrival, / may you come soon. As said before, festivities that were the primary places of entertainment in the Ottoman Empire were organized for a number of occasions. They would take place during the month of Ramadan and on the days of Eid, Mevlid (the Prophet’s birthday), when armies left on a campaign, on the birth of the Sultan’s first three children, on princes’ circumcisions, on the occasion of a victory or the taking of a fortress, on the occasion of the Sultan’s departure to and arrival from his summer Palace, during Friday prayers (the Surrah procession), during the Hırka-i Şerif ceremony, on the occasion of the marriage of princesses, when the mother of the Sultan left for the old Palace, when princes started their education, to greet foreign ambassadors, etc. When we examine the spaces of these festivities in written sources as well as in poems that served as lyrics in compositions, it becomes apparent that certain entertainment spaces have always been important over the half millennium. As the principal space of Istanbul-based festivities, the Topkapı Palace and the adjoining At Meydanı (the ancient Hippodrome), which hosted sports and other events, were such important locales. The At Meydanı events were later moved to the Okmeydanı neighborhood. During the Tulip age especially, with the construction of summer palaces along the Golden Horn, Kağıthane, and Küçüksu became the principal festive spaces. Historical records show that the main entertainment locale of the Ahmed III period, Okmeydanı, once hosted an 80 people-strong küme faslı, conducted by Burnaz Hasan Çelebi. The fasıl featured a composition by Çelebi containing the following lyrics, showing us that entertainment, music, and dance were the main features of royal festivities: “Yine alem şeref-i sur ile mesrur oldu, gülelim oynayalım sur-i Hümayundur” (Again the world has been delighted with royal glory, let us laugh and dance, it is a royal celebration). In his account of the musical activities of the Mahmud II period, based on primary sources, the noted Turkish musicologist, Rauf Yekta, offers a lively account of the ferahfeza fasıl performed at the Serdab pavilion of the Topkapı Palace. The singers who participated in this fasıl were Dede Efendi, Dellalzade İsmail Ağa, Şakir Ağa, Çilingirzade Ahmed Ağa, Suyolcuzade Salih Efendi, Kömürcüzade Hafız Efendi, and Basmacızade Abdi Efendi; the ney players were Kazasker Mustafa İzzet Efendi, Musaip Giriftzen Sait Efendi; the violinists were Rıza Efendi, Mustafa Ağa, Ali Ağa; and the tanbur players were Numan Ağa, Zeki Mehmed Ağa, Keçi Arif Ağa, and Necib Ağa—all very important musicians of the period. In the urban cultural space, fasıllar took place in coffeehouses whose primary function was to take care of people’s non-religious needs such as social interaction, recreation, and

46 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

entertainment. Ottoman coffeehouses were commercially-driven spaces where people of different cultural traditions and social classes mingled. In line with the community organization of city life, they allowed people of different social classes who shared the same culture to organize common events. One can in fact argue that these spaces where religion, commerce, and folklore merged were the first incubators of city life in a distinctively Istanbul style. They divided into two major categories of indoor and outdoor coffeehouses. For further classification, there were neighborhood coffeehouses, shopkeepers’ coffeehouses, janissary coffeehouses, poet-singers and semai (singers) coffeehouses. One can add to this list the reading-coffeehouses (kıraathane) that became part of the city’s life after the Tanzimat reforms. Coffeehouses retained their importance during the Ottoman Empire and subsequently the Turkish Republic. In the succinct definition of Özdemir: coffeehouses are new, spacious and complex institutions composed of words, dance, artisanship, architecture, show, conversation, art and science, criticism, machinations, administration, fatwa and people from all walks of life such as—sultan, grand vizier, sheikh-al Islam, professor, judge, scientist, poet, music lover, storyteller, dancer, magician, poet-singer, unemployed and entertainer. (Özdemir 2005, 104–105) The cultural importance of coffeehouses as everyday spaces of speech and entertainment is encapsulated in the following pieces belonging to the traditional fasıl repertoire: “Kahve Yemenden gelir, bülbül çemenden gelir” (Coffee comes from Yemen), “Kahve koydum fincana” (I poured coffee in the pot), “Kahveciyem zarım yok” (I am a coffee-maker with no beans), “Kahveciler kahve de kavurur” (Coffee-makers roasting coffee), “Kahve bişdiği yerde” (Where coffee was boiling), “Kahvenin önünden gelir geçersin” (You pass by the coffeehouse), “Kahvenin önünde tabakam kaldı” (I left my cigarette case at the coffeehouse), “Kahve oldum tavalarda kavruldum” (I became coffee, roasted in pans), “Kahve olsam dolaplarda” (I wish I were coffee in a pantry), “Kadifeden kesesi kahveden gelir sesi” (His pouch is velvet, his voice comes from the coffeehouse) “Odasına vardım kahve pişirir” (I went to her room, she was making coffee), “Kahveyi kavuranlar” (Coffee roasters). Coffee was equally prominent in many anonymous pieces known and sung in the Istanbulite cultural sphere. Alongside traditional coffeehouses, other popular fasıl spaces of the Western-influenced nineteenth century Ottoman social-space were taverns with music, the so-called caféchantants and restaurants. These spaces were especially common between the years 1890 and 1915 in Direklerarası, Fener, Balat, the vicinity of Topkapı Palace, along with the Galata, Pera, Nişantaşı, and Şişli neighborhoods. A map of such spaces and events drawn from the historical records is as follows: The fasıllar performed by Kemani Ahmet bey and Lavtacı (Lutist) Onnik in the Artin Ağa restaurant in Galata, the fasıllar performed by Kemençeci Vasilaki and the Hristaki brothers, first in the space across from Ağa Mosque in Beyoğlu, then at the İpiros gazino,1 by Kemani Memduh during the Ramadan months on the Galata Fountain plaza, by Kemani Tatyos at the Taksim Garden, by Kanuni Yank at the Taksim Eptalipos casino, by Kemani Kirkor at the Şafak garden in Nişantaşı, and by Udi Afet at the Şişli Binbirçiçek.

Entertainment in Ottoman Musical Life • 47

There are two essential elements that stand out in the analysis of Ottoman popular dance and its attendant musical repertoire: Çengiler (sing. çengi) and köçekler (sing. köçek). Sources from various periods suggest that in early Ottoman culture those who danced were generally called çengi; later this word was only used for female dancers while young male dancers who danced dressed up as females were called köçek. The köçekler mentioned by Evliya Çelebi in the seventeenth century were Mazlum Şah, Küpeli Ayvaz Şah, Saçlı Ramazan Şah, Şahin Şah, and Memiş Şah. Mehmet Çaylak Tevfik Bey talks about the köçek Erzurumlu Aşık İbrahim who came to work in Istanbul in the years 1880–1885 and cites him in his Balıkpazarı Meyhaneleri Destanı (The Epic of Balıkpazarı Taverns) as an example. Male dancers who put on a special costume to perform a special dance dressed as a woman were known as tavşan (rabbit). Although tavşan (pl. tavşanlar) and köçek dancers shared similarities and have been defined as such in many sources, it was their costumes that constituted the difference. With respect to the tavşan, in contrast to the köçek who wore a skirt, these wore a broadcloth shalvar, a camadan (sleeveless jacket) on top, wrapped colorful shawls around the waist and did not leave their heads bare like the köçekler and wore a small inlaid pointy hat. It is not known exactly why these were called tavşan. (And 1985, 210) Henry Lansdell’s account of the beçe (young dancers) in his 1885 travelogue on Central Asia may be of help here, as he writes that some of them wrinkled their faces like a rabbit. Perhaps the same holds for the Ottoman tavşan. We know from the historical records that sometimes tavşanlar performed alongside köçekler, as exemplified in the followings verses from the Tahsin Surname at the 1261 (Muslim calendar) circumcision ceremony of Sultan Abdülmecid’s sons Murat and Abdülhamid: “the köçek came with two tavşanlar, that Greek child came on to dance” (And 1985, 210). The conceptual confusion that happens between the words çengi and köçek is partly due to the fact that from time to time köçekler performed çengi dances and moreover because köçekler had formed a guild with comedians and mime artists and not music groups. Up to the twentieth century, the narratives and terminology in the relevant documents do not provide a clear way of analysing the differences between çengiler and köçekler, divided as they were in gender and identity. Even though the history of the concubine çengiler in Eastern palaces has ancient roots, the historical emergence of köçekler is not very clear. One of the main reasons for the emergence of köçekler in male settings is the status of women in Islam. Whereas ancient Turkic communities had a very rich entertainment culture and both sexes coexisted in entertainment settings as in other spheres of life, after the adoption of Islam and the new culture that came with it, sexes were spatially segregated and coexistence was lost. Especially in all-male entertainment settings, this loss was first compensated through the mimicry of female dancers by the köçekler; later the performances acquired functions that evoked sexuality. The figure of the köçek was indeed a pillar of the entertainment and festivity culture of the Ottoman Empire, included everywhere from palaces and mansions to quotidian settings.

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As a musical form, köçekçe embodies elements of folk dances and the lost dance of the çengi. A descriptive list of the moves featured in these dances drawn from prominent authors in the field is: “Belly-dancing, shoulder-shaking, jerking back and the swaying of flesh and breasts, tiptoe-hop, head-slide, hip-slide, body-bounce, curling” (Koçu 2002, 44). Defining the köçek and çengi dances in similar fashion, Metin And employs narrative elements of femaleness to describe the moves of the çengi: The dance of the köçek consisted of free-walking, tapping out with castanets or fingersnapping, short coquettish steps, slow moves, suggestive expressions, sometimes somersaults, wrestles, roll-ups and other similar plays and mimicry. As for the dancing girls, their dance consisted of suggestive shakes, lots of belly-dancing and shaking, bending back on their knees until their heads almost touched the floor, a move that prompted the viewers to place a coin on their foreheads [.] every muscle and both shoulders would be moved and all these moves followed one another with an expressive elegance and coquettish attitude. (1976, 139–142) In this manner, the prominent features of the çengi and köçek dances, the subtle oscillations of the upper-body, open arms, flexible and controlled hands, finger-cymbals, the accompaniment of wooden percussions or doumbek recall the historical origins of contemporary belly-dance. The oldest sources also use the Arabic terms rakkas (pl. rakkaslar) for a male dancer and rakkase (pl. rakkaseler) for a female dancer. In their respective works on Palace music, both Ali Ufki (n.d.) and Kantemiroğlu (2001) have notated a number of rakkaseler. The piece that Kantemiroğlu notated, composed by mehter musician İbrahim Çelebi, has a hybrid structure with long melody sections. Of the anonymous köçekler, those that begin with the lyrics “Nazlı nazlı sekip gider” (Coquettishly she hop-skips), “Benliyi aldım kaçaktan” (I had an illicit affair with a moled beauty), “Bir sevda geldi başıma” (I stumbled upon a love) are the best known examples of the genre that have survived up to the present day. During the reign of Abdülmecid in the nineteenth century, as the piano entered the Palace for the first time, princesses and concubines alike started to take piano lessons and a fanfar (fanfare) orchestra made up exclusively of concubines was formed. At the same time, an allfemale dance troupe started to perform in the Palace. “A female fanfar has been established so that the musical aspect of the all-female dance troupe’s performances can also be handled by females and so that no male musician be allowed in the harem” (Saz 1974, 45). In some performances, the fanfar would play opera tunes and the female dance troupe would accompany. This troupe would perform Scottish and Spanish dances along with other European-style dances, various amusements, and pantomimes. Leyla Saz hanım (madam), one of the most important composers, performers, and writers of this generation, was among the first group to take piano lessons in the Palace. In her memoir she says the following about her musical life in the harem: The western and fanfar orchestra would take two lessons per week and the Ottoman music troop would take one.2 There was a separate hall for ballet lessons. In one of the

Entertainment in Ottoman Musical Life • 49

Harem-ü Hümayun Women’s orchestra’s concerts, all the girls wore jackets and trousers and had short hair and all wore a fez. Turkish music practice would start with a maqam that was be decided by the musicians, the prelude would begin in that maqam, then the piece would be played, then as the kemençe would begin its solo, eight or ten young rakkaseler would enter and line up in front of the orchestra; they would wait for the kemençe to come to the karcığar maqam and as the solo would end, the first tune of the köçekler would start, steps would be taken and the rakkaslar would begin. (Saz 1974, 34) One of the popular entertainment forms from the cultural changes of nineteenth century is the kanto, which was performed in nearly all secular entertainment settings. Kanto is an Ottoman derivative of the Italian word cantare, meaning to sing, and was adapted from an Italian theater troupe that had visited Istanbul in 1870. After this date, both singing on stage while dancing and the songs specifically written for the purpose were called kanto (pl. kantolar). Kanto performances were initially linked to theater pieces. Later they evolved into a musical form that could also be performed in non-theater settings. Cemal Ünlü argues that as kanto produced its own esteemed and master performers, it evolved into a powerful genre of its own. He adds that the word kanto underwent a semantic change and became a general definition so that over time every new popular composition that was not traditional was called kanto (Ünlü 1998, 10). According to Ataman “Kanto was first performed as part of the theater pieces put on by an Italian troupe in 1870, thereafter, in our tuluat (improvisational) theater, the pre-play performances that are a mix of song and çiftetelli dance to the aksak (limping) tunes of a jazz drum, trumpet, violin, and cymbal were called kanto” (Ataman 1997, 271). Metin And, the author of important works on theater, interprets kanto and kantocular (sing. kantocu, kanto performer) thus: “Kanto is the local form that is closest to musical comedy. In Western theaters actors were expected to be able to sing and dance. The old kanto performers were artists who could perform both” (And 1964, 36). In urban life, the Western influence stemming from the Palace especially affected the ortaoyunu and created the Tuluat theaters, which allowed kanto to develop as the first popular Ottoman music genre. Kantolar are called duetto when sung by two people, trio when sung by three and quartetto when sung by four. The Tuluat theaters applied what they had observed in Italian theaters to their own work, and formed a small orchestra called the “Antrak Orkestrası” which gave free concerts one hour before the start of plays. The orchestra featured instruments like the trumpet, violin, clarinet, trombone, trumpet, and contrabass. On a typical day, the orchestra would first play its concert and then accompany the main musical performance that would begin with an uvertür (overture) and continue with baletto, şansonet, kanto, düetto, trio, and quartetto. The performers of traditional kantolar were mostly Armenian and Greek women. At this time, it was forbidden for Muslim women to appear on stage. In his memoirs, Vasfi Rıza Zobu writes that in 1889 the Muslim kanto star Kadriye Hanım had to perform under the Christian name Amelya of Papasköprü. The subjects of kantolar were diverse, including everyday events, male-female relations, tradesmen’s kantolar that told of different trades, and ethnic kantolar about Roma, Laz,

50 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin

Arab, and Persian characters. Some examples from Metin And’s detailed list of the most famous kantolar of the period are as follows: “Gemici dansı” (Mariner’s dance), “Çoban” (The Pastor), “Hovarda” (Libertine), “Oryental”, (Oriental) “Tayfalar” (Mariners), “Yangın var” (There is a fire), “Küçüksün pek şirinsin” (You are young and cute), “Külhanbeyi” (The Roughneck), and “Çingene” (The Gypsy). As a stage art, kanto is both auditory and visual, therefore costume, make-up, gestures, and mimicry together with dance all supplement the music. Kanto performers appeared on stage in colorful revealing costumes, froufrou, fancy miniskirts, and high-heels. At the same time, these costume items complemented the subject of the piece. Sermet Muhtar Alus, who thought of kanto as befitting women, describes the dance like this: First the instrumental prelude, then the song, shoulder-shaking to the violin solo, turning on one’s axis, a pompous turn of the head, belly-dancing, and finally coming to the movement, using the figure-like steps of tango from a few years ago to hop around like a partridge and disappearing behind the closing curtain. (And 1964, 36) In the words of Murat Belge (1998), kanto is the most then-contemporary form of performance art in Turkish society, and the fact that at the time it reflected everything that appeared in Istanbul life shows that it played the role of a musical newspaper, a live cartoon, and a humorous commentary on society. Conclusion On the whole, Ottoman entertainment settings and their popular repertoires had dynamic characteristics that evolved with the changing historical and spatial conditions of production. From the eighteenth century on, there was a marked increase in the number of imperial festivities and entertainments geared toward the participation of ordinary people. The increasing involvement of State authority in popular entertainment brought about greater control and manipulation of the social and cultural life of the city, and played an active role in the transformation of repertoires and styles. The changes in political and social relations between the people and the Palace can be seen in entertainment milieus as well as in the restructured content of popular culture. For example, the replacement of the traditional Ottoman theater, ortaoyunu, with Europeanized theater in the nineteenth century is a mirror of the Westernization projects that were the manifestation of the climate of modernization. On the other hand, towards the end of the eighteenth century, the structure of class domination in the Empire had been solidified and the gap between the ruling class and ordinary people had widened. This was in turn reflected in the new meanings, spaces, and contents that popular culture created through its entertainment practices. Once theater had become prominent, traditional Ortaoyunu did not survive, as it was no longer officially promoted by the Ottoman state. This meant that the idealized consumption habits of the wealthy Westernized class were imposed on ordinary people. Conversely, forms such as the ortaoyunu, that were no longer supported, gradually lost their social relevance and went into decline.

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When viewed on the basis of the main genres and changing repertoires, it becomes apparent that the organization of entertainment in the Ottoman Empire was carried out focused on the popular genre of the moment. Accordingly, the content of entertainment practices was always determined by exploiting this genre and its repertoire in accordance with contemporary urbanization. This is exemplified by the popularization of kanto that went together with the construction of theaters in the second half of nineteenth century. Furthermore, the diffusion of indoor entertainment practices into outdoor and public spaces during this period is a sign of a modern and Western mind-set. The transformation of the Direklerarası neighborhood, extant since the eighteenth century, into a cultural space showing that entertainment had permeated the entire city, is one such sign. The fasıl style of the coffeehouses and taverns of the Empire was appropriated by the gazinolar of the new Turkish republic, and the reproduction of this traditional genre continued in these new entertainment spaces. The fasıl performances, popular since Ottoman times, continue to be an indispensable element of urban entertainment practices. A coarser style based on the davul (bass drum)–zurna (double reed shawm) duo was associated with the entertainment practices of the rural population in Anatolia. It is apparent that popular culture in the Ottoman Empire was directly related to the sovereign disposition of power in the social area. The sphere of culture and arts, while being the servant of political ideology, was at the same time the site of popular dissent and consent, continuing to exist as such internalized in the cultural and social memory of the people. Notes 1. 2.

The adapted Ottoman word gazino refers to a large European-style tavern where a scheduled musical program with multiple performances would take place. She uses the word takım to designate Ottoman musicians, a generic term that was equally used for members of other professions (such as a fire troop, itfaiye takımı) as opposed to the uniquely musical word “orchestra” which she reserves for a Western music group.

Bibliography And, Metin. 1964. A History of Theatre and Popular Entertainment in Turkey. Ankara: Forum Yayınları. ——. 1985. Geleneksel Türk tiyatrosu [Traditional Turkish theater]. Istanbul: İnkılap Kitabevi. Ataman, Sadi Yaver. 1997. Türk İstanbul [Turkish Istanbul]. Istanbul: Büyük Şehir Belediyesi Kültür İşleri Daire Başkanlığı Yayınları. Belge, Murat. 1998. Kantolar. Kalan Müzik CD booklet notes. Istanbul: Kalan Music. Faroqhi, Suraiya. 2005. Subjects of the Sultan: Culture and Daily Life in the Ottoman Empire. London: I. B. Tauris. Işın, Ekrem. 2001. İstanbul’da gündelik yaşam [Daily life in İstanbul]. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Kantemiroğlu, Dimitri. 2001. Kitâbu ‘ilmi’l-mûsiki alâ vechi’l-hurûfât/Mûsikiyi harflerle tesbit ve icrâ ilminin kitabı [Book of the science of musical notation and performance]. Çeviren Yalçın Tura. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Koçu, Reşad Ekrem. 2002 [1947]. Eski İstanbul’da meyhaneler ve meyhane köçekleri [Taverns and male dancers in old Istanbul]. Istanbul: Doğan Kitap. Lefebrve, Henri. 1991. The Production of Space. Translated by N.S. Donald. London: Blackwell Publishing. Özdemir, Nebi. 2005. Cumhuriyet dönemi Türk eğlence kültürü [Turkish entertainment culture during republican period]. Ankara: Akçağ Yayınları. Saz, Leyla. 1974. Haremin içyüzü [Inner face of harem]. Istanbul: Milliyet Yayınları. Sevengil, Refik Ahmet. 1998. İstanbul nasıl eğleniyordu? [How was Istanbul entertaining?]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

52 • Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu and Gonca Girgin Ufki, Ali. n.d. Mecmua-i saz ü söz [Corpus of Songs]. (microfilm of the original) Sloane Books no: 3114, British Library, London. Ünlü, Cemal. 1998. Kantolar. Kalan Müzik Arşivi CD booklet notes. Istanbul: Kalan Müzik.

Discography Various. Kantolar. Kalan Music, 1998, compact disc. Various. Kantolar (1905–1945). Kalan Music, 2009, compact disc.

3 A Topography of Changing Tastes The 12-Tone Equal-Tempered System and the Modernization of Turkish Music Ali Ergur

Introduction The case of the astonishing transformation of Ottoman/Turkish makam music reveals a set of sociologically-meaningful indications of modernity’s basic characteristics that are, among others, rationalization, standardization, progressive life-perception, and hedonistic or worldly tendencies. In this chapter, we stress that the technical mutations throughout modernization that gave rise to temperament (to the 12-tone equal tempered tuning system) and their socio-historical circumstances have also applied to the evolution of Ottoman/ Turkish Makam music. Although the forms and itineraries were quite different, Turkish modernization shaped its own values and lifestyles that were synchronically reflected on musical codes, aesthetics, and tastes. As Georg Simmel suggested, modern life is, first of all, an urban experience that constantly converts the entire social matrix into multiple but standardized and impersonal forms of interaction (Simmel 1989, 235–239). When considered as such a fundamental sociological assumption, modernity becomes a non-historically specific fact. The gradual abandonment of a vast number of makamlar (sing. makam), the progressive leveling of their micro-tonal peculiarities, the rising pressure from the modernizing, urban social-strata for lighter, simpler, more easily perceivable forms throughout popular culture, beginning in the nineteenth century, catalyzed a similar process to that seen in Europe, but differently theorized, allowing us to reveal hidden temperament. An Overview of The Process of Modernization in Turkey In order to better understand the historical momentum that created the indicators for a comprehensive social transformation, it helps to place musical changes in theory, practice, and taste in Turkey in a larger socio-political context. As a typical representative of Ancien Régime states, though it had its peculiarities, the Ottoman Empire was an essentially agricultural-military political organization, with a more-or-less feudal economy in place. Such a socioeconomic structure was effective under pre-industrial circumstances, which

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favored territorial expansion, a multi-ethnic demographic entity and a cyclical life perception, all dominated by religious traditionalism. The Ottoman Empire reached its apogee in the sixteenth century, yet its decline had already begun by the end of the same era, as European commercial strength grew. When, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, capitalism reached its industrial phase in Western Europe, the dramatic dissolution of the Ottoman Empire accelerated. However, the Empire, without doubt, despite being in visible political decline, entered a socioeconomically dynamic period. Foreign trade, multiplication of travel, a desire to avoid the same fate as the State, all incited in the principal urban areas a disposition towards change, and thus characteristics of modernity began to appear, particularly the rise of a communicative social milieu (Mardin 2004, 145). At a state level, besides different unsystematic attempts, the first reformist steps were made during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, initially in military schools, and then in other social spheres. The period spanning the 1790s to 1820s constitutes a transitional era in the process of modernization in Turkey. Significant transformations began in this unstable era—such as the founding of a new army, inauguration of medical schools, reconstitution of the bureaucracy; with all of these conforming more or less to modern European standards. From the 1820s on, meaningful institutional changes took place, which gave rise to an imperial declaration (the Tanzimat Fermanı) in 1839, which established a guarantee of citizens’ rights. Reformist initiatives continued and became relatively more systematic, especially under the authoritarian regime of Abdülhamid II (1876–1908). The First World War caused the total dissolution of several old empires, one of which was the Ottoman Empire (1918). The Republican regime oversaw radical institutional and cultural changes during the 1920s and 1930s and systematized modernizing reforms. But the most substantial transformation was triggered by the Second World War, by way of massive urbanization and a rush to the cities. Capitalistic relations of production began to dominate Turkey’s economic and cultural life, and they encouraged the rise of popular culture and the culture industry. Since the 1980s, Turkey has exhibited a plural growth pattern with continuing urbanization, exemplified by rapidly-expanding industrial activity together with integration into the global financial system, all leading to a highly heterogeneous society divided by tensions and conflict. Nevertheless, though Turkish society appears to be characterized by sharp contradictions, the underlying trend of modernization remains the main axis of overall social change. Modernity and Urban Life: Rationalization, Standardization, Simplification Nearly all analyses of the process of modernization in Turkey assume, without hesitation, that it has been a clear-cut, top-to-bottom, even Jacobin, reformist movement, designed by Westernized elites, in contradiction with the culture of the majority of the people. Once the conceptual framework is regarded so simplistically, facts can be placed in a schematic system of thought that readily becomes self-referential. Although some major aspects of this too reductionist point-of-view underlie the general character of the reformist movements in Turkey, it underestimates the importance of social needs and their historical

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course. A multi-dimensional sociological approach necessitates taking into account reformist movements and social dynamism in a dialectical articulation, since it is a complex process that has been started not by the intellectuals but including them (Karpat 2006, 446–447). It is not our concern here, in this chapter, to develop a discussion about modernization debates in Turkey, but we should emphasize that we do not entirely agree with such a commonly-convened academic schema, as far as discussing the changes in musical tastes and practices as a function of modernization is concerned. Rather, we assume that modernization in Turkey is fed by reformist movements in both the political apparatus and by the social transformation needed for the process of urbanization, thereby opening Turkey to the world and developing Turkey’s own commercial activities. Instead of accepting modernity as a historically localizable fact, we suppose that it is a consequence of proliferating capitalist relations of production from small-size commerce to heavy industry. In contemporary sociological literature, we read more about analyses that do not take modernity as an exclusively Western European peculiarity, but rather as a pattern of change, which is not bound to always follow the same itinerary (multiple modernities). The very term “modernity” has been conceived, via a wide circulation in theoretical and popular language, as the equivalent of what is deemed to be new, actual, original, and different. Although modernity includes such characteristics, a sociological understanding needs a much more synthetic and economically-oriented analysis. Indeed, modernity is a cultural phenomenon closely linked to capitalism, which reshapes the basic components of social life and its values, in accordance with the characteristics of urban complexity and its frenetic pace. As Georg Simmel points out, the rise of urban life and the preeminence of money as a modeler of a socially-modern system are its basic characteristics (Simmel 1999, 116). With the development of commercial and industrial activities, pre-modern, mostly agrarian-based social structures, began to dissolve into something more complex and linear instead of cyclical, worldly, and rationalized; especially for those living at the gateways of international commerce (e.g. Istanbul, Izmir, and Thessaloniki.). Agricultural production requires concordance with nature’s rhythmical and reproductive instruments. Commercial activity, alternatively, is based on the idea of progress: The need for constant change and the development of a variety of tools for exchange. Yet, in the commercially-guided society, the components of everyday life multiply in quality as well quantity, which, in turn, kindles a need to rationalize (foreseeable, easy-to-mobilize forms of action and thinking) the elements that make it so. Thus, standardization becomes a prerequisite of modern life (Weber 2008, 131–133). While the material components (technology, material production) of everyday life present complexity, and the non-material ones (values, norms, ethics, etc.) a high degree of heterogeneity, the instruments with which people manage their lives gradually become simpler. As is the case with other parts of social life, music too submits to this process of rationalization in modern circumstances. In contrast to feudal Europe, where measures were non-standardized, multiple, and localized, under commercial and industrial capitalism, standardization proliferated and was adopted throughout a wide geographical area. In addition, values, ethics, and aesthetics shift in such wide-ranging transformations. This also holds true for the Ottomans from the end of the eighteenth century onwards even though the historical circumstances were quite different.

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Changing Components of Urban Life, Changing Musical Tastes in Turkey The beginning of the eighteenth century saw the Empire slowly losing its territory and its people becoming wearier of continuous wars ending in defeat. Unsurprisingly, and for more than a century, the economy gradually worsened. As the State entered into an era of decline, the first attempts were made to explore the reasons why Europe, long-ignored and humiliated by the Ottoman throne, had become a dominant force, first in military technology, and then in other domains. European cultural influences had already reached the port cities of the Empire. Meanwhile, the destabilized rural economy triggered a relative exodus to the cities, though not yet massive. The self-sufficient cycle of the Empire’s classical economy was eroded by the penetration of European-products, gradually permeating the Ottoman marketplace. Even in unbalanced conditions, trade with European commercial forces admitted not only lowcost products, but also new ideas, information about the rest of the world, and its techniques and values. Cities (Istanbul above all) began to be the place for more complex relationships, exchanges, and lifestyles. Consequently, new values promoting a modern conception of social life began to germinate, first among the most prosperous classes, but eventually to other urban strata. Lifestyles inspired by Europeans began to be manifested both as a reaction to political instability and the adoption of worldlier, hedonistic values. This modern tendency solidified as the emergence of a lifestyle, and also as a series of urban initiatives, particularly in Istanbul, between 1718 and 1730, until a bloody riot by merchants brought it to an end. This period, better known as the “era of tulips” (Lâle Devri), has been vulgarized by some historians as the illusory time of an elite minority seeking hedonistic pleasures, without any consideration of the realities of the Empire. Indeed, this is a too abbreviated and conservative approach, and ignores the sociological evaluation of this tendency in leading urban circles. Although this era has been mostly personified by the upper classes, the values associated with traditional life (religiously-oriented action, the virtue of sobriety, living for the afterlife, under-valorization of life’s pleasures, etc.) were not only peculiarities of the privileged social strata, but were also slowly becoming the logic of other urban milieux, with different forms and intensities for different actors. This shift in the system of values related to an accelerated and complex social life, seems to reflect most on musical aesthetics. From the beginning of the eighteenth century, musical production developed adaptive strategies to the new social expectations of the times. Indeed, the makam tradition begins to lose its micro-tonal nuances in the process of incorporating European 12-tone temperament, and to adopt a clearly popular rhetoric, including melodic structures and lyrics. These significant changes can also be observed in the long-established divan poetry tradition, which began to feature more hedonistic, worldly, earthly, and, frequently, erotic lyrics and themes, instead of more religious and sublime ones. The evolution of the Ottoman language is another example of such a general transformation: Ottoman Turkish, heavily influenced by Arabic, began to include more Persian words and authentically Turkish words, which, until then, were considered banal and vulgar. Besides aiming to be socially dynamic, the reforms were also intended to recalibrate Ottoman society to contemporary circumstances.

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Reforms were not made only at the institutional level, but also in the cultural domain, especially in music. Giuseppe Donizetti, the Italian maestro (and Gaetano Donizetti’s brother) was invited by the royal court to establish a European-style military band, which eventually evolved into a full symphonic orchestra; opera and ballet productions were also staged under the imperial court’s auspices (Alimdar 2011). Nevertheless, the changes in Turkish music were not only due to the reformist process, but also to a wider social dynamism sparked by the need to gradually adopt to modern life and its accompanying values. Yet, such changes caused a series of contradictions between social strata which were adapting to changes at different speeds. In sum, musical modernization was not limited to court circles and to European types of music. Also, traditional music (Turkish makam music) had already begun to undergo significant changes from the beginning of the eighteenth century. This process continued, together with the rise of popular commercial music, up until the Republican era, during which radical institutional reforms were made and European art music was mostly preferred by the state as its musical choice, alongside a refusal of importation. Instead, the new regime’s desire was to synthesize European techniques and the long-neglected rural Anatolian-musical tradition, identifying makam music as the Empire’s legacy; and thus the construction of a national identity was shaped on a folkloristic view (Balkılıç 2009, 191). Complex Interactions Implying Simpler Forms: The 12-Tone Equal Tempered System as a Tool of Modernization With modernization, not only European musical styles, forms, education, performances, and tastes were introduced into the Ottoman context, but, more importantly, existing musical practices and expression were influenced by a wider-ranging transformation. One example of this evidence can be found in the makam tradition’s technical aspects. They extend from the peculiarities of the tuning system to public reception of the music. This is the reason why we do not concern ourselves exclusively with the proliferation of European music in Turkey, but rather on the oscillating path of makam music, and its three-century evolution of displacement to a kind of temperament, with several contradictions, inconsistencies, and discontinuities along the way. The most significant change in makam music is seen in the tuning system, consisting of a gradual quantitative reduction and micro-tonal leveling. As known from different edvarlar (sing. edvar) (traditional music treatises) and from the existing large repertoire of makam music, approximately 600 makam pieces were created, that we are aware of at least, presumed or in historical existence. Not just a particular series of notes as compared to the 12-tone tempered system of scales, a makam contains both the scale available for its melodic context and, more importantly, a logic of movement, essentially marked by the character of the makam (ascending, descending, ascending-descending), and the flavors (çeşni) added to the basic construction. Moreover, a makam is composed of a scale that doesn’t have fixed pitches as in a tempered system. The same set of relations between scales, together with the specific “spirit” of that precise makam, can be transposed to a multitude of frequencies (Aydemir 2010, 13–17). During the nineteenth century, as urban life developed, modern values and lifestyles proliferated, more or less, and in constantly mutating forms, through different social strata,

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while capitalist relations began to dominate. At least partly in the Ottoman urban social space, makamlar preferred by listeners and consequently by composers, diminished in number. Of the around 600 known makamlar, only 22 seem to have survived until recent times. Although some new makamlar were composed in the eighteenth century, this has been a limited practice. Most of the musical production in the continuation of makam music was based, as an aspect of modernization, largely on a highly-restricted spectrum of makamlar, a little less than half of the surviving ones. This dramatic reduction presents a certain parallelism to the rising social wish for simpler forms that are relatively easier to appreciate, and work better as representations of the social reality on which they are modeled. The artistic value of a makam composition, particularly at the beginning of the eighteenth century, moved from a cyclical cosmic perception, which consisted of an astrological setting of the universe, towards a more linear and functional one (Levendoğlu 2002, 204). Such a cyclical cosmic perception is typically associated with agricultural relations of production, which, by their nature, necessitate a social life in harmony with nature’s cycles—the sun’s movements, the day as determined by sunlight, the seasons as smoothly intersecting periods defined in terms of agricultural production, etc. Commercial activities radically reshape social organization, as they require inventions, changes, progress, and linear historicity. The era of transformation in Ottoman/Turkish history presents not a sharp and well-detectable passage from the mindsets of the ancient world to more modern-day ways of thinking and acting, but one that unfolds in a partlycontradictory way. In a modern resetting of the world, people need quantitatively limited, rationalized and easily-operable tools to render the complicated network of relations as schematically and predictably as possible. As music is one of the most meaningful representational elements of social life, its structural changes reveal explicit clues about the requirement to adopt simpler and more limited forms of expression in a social milieu where relations and functions become gradually more heterogeneous and less predetermined. Another indication of change is the expansion of scales constituting a makam, or the enlargement of the area of movement (seyir bölgesi—melodic range) in a makam, together with an increase in melodic density, producing a more virtuosic expression instead of simply reproducing its repetitive character (Feldman 2002, 113–128). We know from the surviving edvarlar written around the thirteenth century that makamlar at the time had narrower areas of movement, or a narrower range of scales, than their more-evolved forms following the eighteenth century. Furthermore, more recent definitions of makamlar in the edvarlar have had more exactness and detail. Modern culture is characterized by conceptual and functional precision, implying constant rationalization. The evolution of makamlar seems to present a passage to such modern precision. Another indication of rationalization in the tuning system can be seen in the growing tendency to fix the frequency value and position of scales, and thus the makam as a whole, instead of it being an ever-transposable structure by nature. Treatises or theoretical texts in recent times have tended to fix the position of every makam to a certain frequency thus creating a fundamental makam, as has been the case for C Major in the 12-tone, equaltempered system. In particular, modern-day theoretical essays are mostly based on fixed makam positions, with most often çargâh as the referential makam (Signell 2006, 41).

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Such a fixation stands in contrast with the very conception of makam itself, but modernity has ignited an irresistible historical-cultural momentum, as in Western Europe from the seventeenth century on. A natural consequence of the formation of such a rigid system is the identification or superposition of makamlar on the scales of the European tempered order. For example, in still dominant theories of Turkish makam music, rast, one of the most popular makamlar, has been conceptualized as the equivalent of G Major. This last aspect of the modernization of the tuning system also signifies an internal reconfiguration of the organization of sounds in the logic of makam music. In other words, with developing modernization, the relatively fluid, flexible nature of the makam, the originality of which is based on the uses of micro-tonal scales, has become almost the equivalent of tempered scales. The most explicit indication of such a leveling is the proliferation of the piano in traditional music circles. In the second half of the nineteenth century, piano-playing became fashionable in urban upper-class environments. As it is immobile, it represents the home and life inside the home, and it also came to represent women’s lives. Indeed, most the higher classes of Ottoman women were learning to play the piano by the end of the nineteenth century. Although the classical repertoire of the European 12-tone tempered system was also learned, very popular piano transcriptions of makam music were preferred and played in homes. This means that makamlar which once featured a micro-tonal texture which made them unplayable with tempered instruments, lost their nuances which were their ontological characteristic. This also means that modernity recalibrated individual self-perception and the social conventions that rule them: Going from a movable, relatively negotiable, pragmatically-adaptable structure to a rationalized and thus fixed system, which, by its nature, implies a system based on clearly-defined standards. Today, though the performances of makam music are generally with traditional instruments which are structurally able to play microtones, the practice, with the exception of some of the more academic, is more or less tempered, especially in the entertainment sector. Wherever piano or other tempered instruments appear in makam performances, the microtones are practically erased and replaced by “well-tempered” scales, resembling those of the 12-tone tempered system. We can remember the 1980s, when the pianist-singer mushroomed in popularity, and became dominant, in harmony with neo-liberalism’s individualist ideological context. The pianist-singer (piyanist-şantör) was a musician playing only an electronic keyboard with a rhythm-box, performing the most popular makam music of the time. These changes, two centuries in the making, seem to offer a variety of clues to the existence of an indirectlytheorized temperament in the Turkish makam tradition, which we prefer to conceptualize as hidden temperament (Ergur and Aydın 2006). Besides the tuning system, tendencies to modernization are also observed in the astonishing reduction of rhythmic patterns (usûller—sing. usûl). Prior to the nineteenth century, the number of usûller used in the composition of makam music was high, and their structures long and complex. There are many examples of makam music-works which are based on a very complex rhythmical pattern with the entire composition juxtaposing with an usûl that is played only once (big usûller—büyük usûller). But during the nineteenth century, greater rhythmic patterns were rapidly abandoned in favor of smaller ones. These

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shorter loops enabled easier memorization due to their simplicity, leading to an easier perception of structurally-reduced musical expression. Shorter rhythmic patterns were also an inseparable technical component of popular music in the market conditions of the time. The nineteenth century also saw a rise of popular tastes, both as a response to the modernizing trend of the urban population, and as a symptom of the fact that music was gradually becoming a product of capitalistic activities (commercial concerts instead of performances in closed or semi-closed circles of friends, recorded music at the beginning of the twentieth century, the performer as “star,” etc.). The rise of popular culture as a commercially-determined activity also shaped a new matrix of tastes, largely consisting of shorter, more easily appreciable, highly-standardized forms of expression. During the Republican Era, the political emphasis on European-oriented music genres gave birth to a series of synthetic forms and hybrid modal structures aiming to fuse Eastern and Western influences (Tekelioğlu 2001, 101). The hidden temperament in makam music corresponds to a transformation of these tastes from relatively divine codes to more earthly ones. Consequently, throughout the process of modernization, the makam tradition, which has been labeled culturally as Turkish art music, became exclusively a music of entertainment, joy, or, at the other end of the spectrum, an exaggerated expression of sorrow (especially as the classical music of the Turkish tavern, the meyhane), but always within the same cliché: Reduced quantitative and qualitative forms. During the 1980s, more or less in synch with the capitalist world evolving into a neoliberal one which focused on social relationships as well as economy-related ones, Turkey began a relatively accelerated period of social change. This time, syntheses of musical genres were not only national, but also reflected global influences. Combined with postmodern esthetical considerations, the 1980s’ world of popular music in Turkey, not only included opposing tendencies, different traditions, contradictory esthetical contexts, but also reformatted listener perception into a market-oriented framework, which is a priori a tempered and polyphonic hearing, where nostalgia plays a crucial part (Stokes 1997, 681–682). When put inside the ideological sphere of newly-emerging conservatism, this favors an uprooted and historically-disfigured Ottoman image of a disproportionally-aggrandized non-existent past. Such postmodern nostalgia functions as the most active ingredient in the fusion of tastes in popular music. Finally, since the 1990s, this artificiality produced genres in the music industry which, as they began to fuse into each other, gave rise to a unique and inclusive popular music sphere, with a dominantly tempered tuning system, extremely easy-to-remember rhythms, and a series of schematic production and perception patterns. Conclusion Music, due to its penetrating quality and fluid ontology, is a significant indicator of social structure and change in terms of how it is conceived and developed. This omnipresent principle of music becomes more valid in the historical context Turkey experienced during the last three centuries. Indeed, the passage from an agrarian-military Ancien Régime to a modern state characterizes the numerous varieties of conflicts and contradictions in Turkey.

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Nevertheless, this has not been only an organizational top-to-bottom change, as several authors have suggested in their analyses of Turkish modernization, but a dialectical relation between reformist political movements and a continuing social need to transform a system of values and lifestyles. Modernization has not been a tranquil or linear process in a sociological sense, which essentially means the rise of a rationalized, standardized social life and its individualistic and hedonistic tendencies emerging in urban areas from the beginning of the eighteenth century, and at its strongest during the second half of the nineteenth century. Significant and relatively rapid changes in musical production and tastes offer an excellent blueprint for the internal dynamic of modernization. The most important shift has been in the tuning system of traditional Ottoman/Turkish makam music, where the selection of certain makamlar became the primary symbol of the popularization of taste, and where the great majority of them were abandoned or only used exceptionally. Those which survived were the ones most adaptable to the European tempered system. But more importantly, a complex social life in modern conditions necessitated simpler and reduced forms of expression, which in turn, implied a quantitative and qualitative reduction of makamlar to those more congenial to listening and composing. The diffusion of a modern worldview also promoted the adoption of rationalized forms of musical expression. Later, especially at the beginning of the twentieth century, such a long-ranging technical change of Turkish makam music was theorized as a variant of the tempered (non-equal 24-tone) system, which placed additional social pressure on the previously-existing musical system, paving the way for a more simplified and somewhat standardized one. We prefer to observe this change of tastes and its reflection in music theory as the hidden temperament underlining the standardizing effect of modernity; as has been observed in Western Europe from the seventeenth century, despite the fact that the historical and economic circumstances were different. Modernity is not only a historically-bound, culturally-determined fact, but rather a socioeconomic reorganization of the relations of production, and it can evolve in a multitude of ways. Consequently, the three-century long transformation of Turkish music provides an important example of a non-Eurocentric perception of modernity. Bibliography Alimdar, Selçuk. 2011. “On dokuzuncu yüzyıldan itibaren Osmanlı Devleti’nde batı müziği’nin benimsenmesi ve toplumsal sonuçları.” [The adoption of Western Music until the 19th century and its social consequences in the Ottoman State.] PhD diss., İstanbul Teknik University. Aydemir, Murat. 2010. Turkish Music Makam Guide. Istanbul: Pan. Balkılıç, Özgür. 2009. Cumhuriyet, halk ve müzik: Türkiye’de müzik reformu 1922–1952 [The Republic, the people and the music: Musical reforms in Turkey 1922–1952]. Ankara: Tan. Ergur, Ali, and Yiğit Aydın. 2006. “Patterns of Modernization as Indicators of a Changing Society.” Musicae Scientiae Special Issue 2005–2006: 89–108. Feldman, Walter. 2002. “Ottoman Turkish Music: Genre and Form.” In The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, Vol.6, edited by Virginia Danielson, Scott Marcus and Dwight Reynolds, 113–128, New York: Routledge. Karpat, Kemal. 2006. Osmanlı’da değişim, modernleşme ve uluslaşma [Change, modernization and nationalism in the Ottoman Empire]. Ankara: İmge. Levendoğlu, N. Oya. 2002. “XIII. Yüzyıldan günümüze kadar varlığını sürdüren makamlar ve değişim çizgileri.” [Surviving makams from the 13th century until today and their changing trends.] PhD diss., Gazi University.

62 • Ali Ergur Mardin, Şerif. 2004. Türk modernleşmesi [Turkish modernization]. Istanbul: İletişim. Signell, Karl. 2006. Makam: Türk sanat musikisinde makam uygulaması [Makam: Modal practice in Turkish art music]. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi. Simmel, Georg. 1989. Philosophie de la modernité, La femme, la ville, l’individualisme. Paris: Payot. ——. 1999. Philosophie de l’argent. Paris: PUF. Stokes, Martin. 1997. “Voices and Places: History, Repetition and the Musical Imagination.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 3(4): 673–690. Tekelioğlu, Orhan. 2001. “Modernizing Reforms and Turkish Music in the 1930s.” Turkish Studies 2(1): 93–108. Weber, Max. 2008. Économie et société/1, Les catégories de la sociologie. Paris: Plon.

Discography Anıl, Avni. “Gözlerin bir aşk bilmecesi.” In 75. yıl anısına 75 büyük usta [to commemorate the 75th anniversary, 75 Grand Masters], Turkish Airlines, 2008, 5 compact discs. Ebûbekir Ağa, “Mâhur Ağırsemai.” In 75. yıl anısına 75 büyük usta [to commemorate the 75th anniversary, 75 Grand Masters], Turkish Airlines, 2008, 5 compact discs. Hacı Arif Bey, “Vücud ikliminin sultanı sensing.” In Türk Bestekârları Serisi, Turkish Classical Music Composers Series, Hacı Arif Bey, Golden Horn, Sony Music, Columbia, 2002, 2 compact discs. Hammamizâde İsmail Dede Efendi, “Yine bir gül-nihâl aldı bu gönlümü.” In Türk Bestekârları Serisi, Turkish Classical Music Composers Series, Hammamizâde İsmail Dede Efendi, Golden Horn, Sony Music, Columbia, 2002, 2 compact discs. Sultan Veled, “Arazbâr Peşrev.” In Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Müzik I, II [Music in the Ottoman Empire I, II], Ada Müzik, 1999, 2 compact discs. Tamburi Mustafa Çavuş, “Bir dilberdir beni yakan.” In 75. yıl anısına 75 büyük usta [to commemorate the 75th anniversary, 75 Grand Masters], Turkish Airlines, 2008, 5 compact discs.

4 Music Reform in Turkey On the Failures and Successes of Inventing National Songs Özgür Balkılıç

During the opening ceremony of the Turkish Grand National Assembly in 1934, Mustafa Kemal (or Atatürk as he is usually referred to), founder of the new Turkish State, asserted that the country had to make bold reforms in the fine arts, including music, in order to elevate society to the level of developed Western nations. In his speech, Kemal underlined that Turkish researchers should collect folk songs which, according to him, expressed the essential national and noble soul of the Turks. Turkish composers were then to make new arrangements of those songs, specifically according to the rules of Western classical music, which he regarded as a sign of a more advanced society. In fact, State attempts to bring certain Western musical genres to the Ottoman Empire had already begun in the nineteenth century. For example, during the reign of Mahmud II, the band at the Palace, Mehterhane, was replaced by the Western classical music performances of Mızıka-ı Hümayun, (The Sultan’s Military Band) and when the Committee of Union and Progress, a nationalist organization, took power in the 1910s, the state opened several schools to teach Western classical music. During this decade, nationalists like Ziya Gokalp felt that authentic examples of Turkish music, i.e. folk songs, needed to be collected and built on to create a civilized and national Turkish musical character. However, the work to realize this goal did not begin until 1922, the last year of Ottoman rule. This chapter will cover the period between that year and 1952, when the nationalist elite vociferously engaged in debates over the importance of reinventing national songs as a part of the new domestic identity, and the impact of their efforts on the development over time of musical genres in Turkey. Debating the goals, implementation, and the successes and failures of music reform, provides us with important insights into the analysis of popular music genres of later periods. On the Track of the Nation: The Nationalist Narrative and Culture After proclaiming the Republic in 1923 and founding the new state, the Kemalist elite focused their attention on creating a nation loyal to the new state and to the principles of

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its new leaders. The ruling class first undertook the implementation of these reforms during the 1930s. Terry Eagleton (2000) argues that culture is an indispensable tool for nationalists to create a homogenous social identity, and with that intention Turkish nationalists invested considerable efforts around national sentiments into organizing cultural reforms designed to rally the populus in its state of being scattered across different localities. The new national culture, which was to be deeply infused with cultural reform, would derive its elements from the history of the “nation” (CHF 1931, 79; Engin 1938, 25). In this sense, it would differ from Ottoman culture, which contained many “foreign elements” alien to the “national traits of the Turks”; the new culture would be the “real or authentic” national culture. And to make this national culture the equal of “civilized” Western culture, its historical elements would be processed through the rules and methods of the developed culture of the West. This simple idea constituted the general framework of music reform. In brief, under this method, the folklorist would collect songs which met the definition of the “real music of the nation” from Turkey’s villages, or from old manuscripts that had been written by the literate folk minstrels over the years. Musicians would then (re)compose or arrange them in accordance with the methods of Western classical music. Finally, these traditional, yet at the same time modern, processed cultural forms would be disseminated out to the people through the state’s cultural institutions. In the words of Eric Hobsbawm (1992), the nationalist elite would (re)invent the folk song. In their efforts to revive the “sleeping nation and national culture” (Anderson 1991), the most important reference for the nationalists was, unsurprisingly, history itself. The Turkish History Thesis, an ambitious thesis produced by Turkey’s historians to infuse Turkish society with nationalist ideas and sentiments, was significantly furthered throughout the 1930s and it filled a great void on book shelves across the nation. The work was part of a broader cultural reform, and it had a major impact on the formation of the music policies of the period. In summarizing the nationalist historical narrative, the Thesis suggested that when Turks were scattered to different parts of the world after leaving their original Central Asian homeland, they carried their “high civilization and culture” with them. Although these “developed cultural elements” made the basis upon which their modern culture arose, they were later forgotten by the Turkish people; and especially during the Ottoman Empire, foreign cultural elements infiltrated Turkish society, flourished in big cities, and eventually replaced Turkish culture altogether—although some elements remained “unspoiled” among the peasants who had been living away from the influence of the big cities (Alp 1936, 143–144; İnan 1932, 31 and 444). Thus, the Thesis assigned to the nationalists the duty to uncover those “essential and real cultural aspects of the nation,” in order to create a new national culture (Galip 1932, 99). In addition to the History Thesis, language reform and the Sun Language Theory, which also flourished during the 1930s, had a considerable impact on musical works of the period. Seeing the Turkish people themselves as the “mind and heart of the Turkish nation” (İnan 1969, 10), the language reform plan was aimed to create a homogenous language that would bring the nation together (Başgöz and Wilson 1968, 134). Further to this, the Sun Language Theory put forth the claim that the first words humanity used to communicate in ancient times arose among the Turks and afterwards evolved into

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“civilized languages” in various other nations. But over time, the original language of the Ottomans was spoiled by the infiltration of foreign elements. Consequently, “the real language of the nation disappeared among the upper classes,” whereas it continued to survive among the common folk of Anatolia (Dilmen 1936, 88; İnan 1936, 143). Those pure authentic Turkish words and the original language had to be rediscovered and catalogued to create the framework of a common modern language (TDK 1936, 1). Lastly, the Kemalist principle of populism contributed to the shape of music reform, since this principle, as related within the History Thesis and language reform plan, focused on the people for creating national identity, especially on those peasants whose lives were assumed to be imbued with the “original and authentic values of the nation” (Engin 1938, 32). To conclude the point, Kemalist nationalism searched for the ideal nation, and used its folk music and language to create a national identity. It turned to the people to discover those “essential elements”; a process Hobsbawm (1992) called “inventing the tradition.” However, there was an inherent tension within the very definition of “nation” during the Early Republican Period. This tension arose in the gap between how the elite imagined the country and the social reality that in fact presented itself. The rift between the ideal culture and the existing one created a certain disappointment within the elite, who expressed their dissatisfaction clearly during village visits, organized by Party branches or the People’s Houses, to “discover the nation” (Alkan 1937, 7). The visitors claimed that the national elements which might be discovered among the more traditional people were “insufficient,” in terms of their definition of “civilized.” A dilemma which came from seeing and judging Turkish society through the lens of another one: Western culture (cf. Chatterjee 1986, 2). Thanks to this bias, the History Thesis was a hopeless intervention when it came to preventing the infiltration of foreign elements into national culture. So the Thesis simply asserted that the founding ideas of Western civilization (such as laicism, civilization, and democracy), usually thought of as foreign elements, had first been rooted among the ancient Turks (Alp 1936, 2; İnan 1936, 28). With this maneuver, the Thesis and its fine-point definitions of traditional Turkish culture aimed to preserve the homogeneity of national identity, at least at a discursive level. Getting the Nation to Speak with One Voice In general, cultural reforms were carried out against a backdrop of the aforementioned rift between modern society and the lingering traditional one. Thus the nationalists elaborated three basic musical genres to work with. First, their approach to Ottoman-era classical music went in parallel with their definition of the new society under construction. The elites of the new state mostly aimed to rebuild Turkish culture, to “emancipate” it from the relics and legacies of the Ottoman past. Thus, Ottoman classical music was categorized as music of the Palace, which they denigrated as being alien to the wishes, emotions, and thoughts of the Turkish people, as well as having a “backward,” namely monophonic, melodic structure (Oransay 1985, 89). Second, polyphonic music was characterized as the sign of a civilized nation, and its melodic structure, specifically in its character of sustained pitch against melody, would be used to arrange the source music of the nation (Oransay 1985, 32).

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Third, folk music was defined as the genre that was thought to reflect the genuine national characteristics of Turks. The Kemalist elites had three goals for folk music. Initially, it was defined simply as source music to be found among the Turkish people by Turkish researchers. After that, the tunes were to be elaborated by modern Turkish composers using the methods of Western classical music. Finally, folk tunes were to be conveyed back to the Turkish people through State conservatories, the People’s Houses and the radio, all of which were controlled by the State (Oransay 1985, 27). With these goals in mind, Turkish composers and researchers carried out the process of collecting, arranging, and teaching the reworked folk songs until the 1950s; and in their studies of the source material, they generally dealt with folk music as a pedagogical issue through which they could infuse a new national identity into Turkish society. Folk music reform, with both its specific defining and selective processing of traditional songs, can be analyzed from the standpoint of the tensions inherent in how the nationalist elites were imagining the nation itself. Indeed, the very definition of a folk song was characterized by the nationalists’ approach which idealized folk music a priori, rather than delineating its characteristics as they actually existed; or, in other words, they focused on what and how folk music is supposed to have been in Turkey instead of what and how it really was. The folklorists who engaged in collecting folk songs in different provinces of the country shared this perspective (Çakmak and Şemsi 1935, 4; Salcı 1935, 8; Akşit 1941, 16; Sarısözen 1944a, 10). They searched the songs to discover whether, for example, they included particular dimensions fitting with the aesthetics of modern art. But, such definitions of the genre were faulted with a transparent anachronism: Through the criteria of modern aesthetics, the nationalist elites were attempting to explain a cultural form which was produced in an entirely different historical and social context. However, if there is one essential redeeming feature of their definition of folk music as a genre, it is their search for folk materials that reflected the daily life of people. In the words of Pertev Naili Boratav, folk songs contained the life, desires, and hopes of ordinary people, rather than the “high art” of a nation (Boratav 1991, 361–362). Moreover, Turkish folk songs were originally made in a variety of styles. Most of them did not coincide with modern aesthetic perspectives, and had lyrical structures which did not necessarily express the “pure” or “noble” traits of the people (Tüfekçi 1983, 1482–1483; Boratav 2000a, 83 and 2000b, 186). So, an obvious gap existed between the nationalist imagination and the features of traditional Turkish folk music; and the nationalist folklorists were well aware of the schism, and it resulted in a certain disappointment among them (Gazimihal 1947, 71). Even local folklorists admitted that they had collected some “invaluable” folk songs which presented neither the “noble” traits of Turks, nor “aesthetic” value; and so they defined those examples as “simple,” “unsophisticated or undeveloped,” “ordinary,” or “insufficient” in terms of their techniques (Aşkun 1940, 65; Özer 1940, 35; Okan 1938, 14). In order to overcome this divide, the nationalist elites counted on the idea of rearranging the songs, to develop the “insufficient” folk tunes in accordance with the rules of Western classical music. As well, not every example of folk music was to be considered an “authentic” folk song; the songs were to be presented to people through radio and the People’s Houses only after a careful selection process, involving purification of their lyrics and style, and

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processing through the rules of Western music (Yönetken 1934, 203–204; Ankara Halkevi 1935, 3; Saygun 1937, 71). The nationalist elite attempted to save the songs from the distortion of foreign elements, at least in their rhetoric. Inspired by the works of the composer and folk music collector, Béla Bartók, who visited Turkey in the 1930s at the time of the Turkish History Thesis, the music reformers absurdly defended the position that the polyphonic music of the preBaroque characterizing Western classical music was actually derived from the pentatonic scale—one that had been originally invented by the Turks in ancient times. In this sense, the pentatonic scale, at the base of the Western musical tradition, remained “hidden” in Turkish folk songs (Saygun 1936, 9; Gazimihal 1936, 5–6). In order to find those examples, the folklorists had to search in the most isolated places of Anatolia where “unspoiled examples of folk songs” could be “discovered” (Saygun 1936, 12). Using this rhetoric, the nationalist elites argued that arranging folk songs according to the early polyphonic rules of Western music was, indeed, an act of highlighting the essential hidden features of Turkish traditional songs. Therefore, this act should be seen as a kind of rekindling of the songs, rather than a perversion or co-opting of them (Küçüka 1982, 202; Sarısözen 1944b, 6). But this idea would not last long among the researchers. Even Ahmed Adnan Saygun, a well-known nationalist music composer in the Republican era, would later admit that they “exaggerated” the issue of the pentatonic scale “a little bit” during the single-party period. Processing the Songs During the Early Republican Period, several State institutions, such as the Istanbul and Ankara State Conservatories, the People’s Houses of different regions, and State radio, all carried out folk music research. The individual folklorists who engaged in collecting folk songs in remote localities labored especially hard in the name of the People’s Houses. However, it should be remembered that folk music research in Turkey had actually begun long before the foundation of the Republic in 1923. Still, the later debates, which focused on the importance of folk music in “discovering” national identity, and the attempts to collect folk melodies, flourished, unsurprisingly, with the rise of nationalism in the second decade of the twentieth century (Ülkütaşır 1972, 30; Şenel 1999, 104–105). The State conservatory of the period, Dar-ul-Elhan,1 prepared about 2000 index cards in 1922, and the Ministry of Education sent them to teachers in Anatolia, so they could make note of the folk songs of the regions in which they lived (Şenel 1999, 106–107). After the foundation of the new State, the Ministry of Education organized in 1925 the first folk song collection trip. In the following year, as a result of both the index cards and the first trip, 161 folk melodies were published in a book entitled Songs of Our Land. As a result of the six trips held between 1925 and 1932, approximately 2000 folk songs were published (Saygun 1938, VI). In the 1930s, the state invited prominent composers and researchers, such as Béla Bartók and Paul Hindemith, to help with the music reforms, and to have them teach in Turkish schools. In 1936 the State also opened the Ankara State Conservatory to educate musicians. The People’s Houses (built in 1932 as community centers in localities all over the country

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to spread official ideology among people through art activities, history, language, and citizenship lectures), started to compile village folk melodies and give new courses teaching folk songs. In addition to the Conservatory and the People’s Houses, radio was a significant institution when it came to disseminating the collected folk songs. In 1941 Muzaffer Sarısözen, a music teacher in Sivas, prepared a program entitled We Are Learning Folk Songs and established a choir called The Choir of Songs from the Land which then performed folk songs on the radio. In 1936, the Ankara State Conservatory, in collaboration with State radio and with the financial support of the Ministry of Education, recommenced the collection trips, and these continued until 1952. As a result of 17 trips in the second period, over 9000 folk songs were compiled (Ülkütaşır 1972, 78–82; Şenel 1999, 110–111). During the collection, teaching, and broadcasting of the songs, the collectors and researchers changed the lyrics and melodies to make them appropriate to the assumed national identity. Additionally, some songs were excluded from the collections since they were thought to be unsuitable for the noble modern and civilized Turkish society. Here, the actions of the Turkish nationalists’ folk music collectors represented a discursive stalemate: On the one hand, the nationalists defined folk songs as reflecting the “natural” noble and civilized characteristics of the Turks; on the other hand, they did not trust the folk melodies as collected. Instead of purely collecting and disseminating traditional music, Turkish nationalists re-invented the folk songs to create their sought-after national identity. Importantly, because researchers were specialists in Ottoman classical music and the phonograph (as recorder) was barely used in their trips to collect folk songs, there were serious notation mistakes in the first collections (Saygun 1938, III–IV). Even later, the melodies of some of the folk songs that were collected in the 1930s and 1940s were changed (Uzunoğlu 1951, 291; Arsunar 1937, 6). After the collecting process, the songs were melodically restored in the Conservatories, People’s Houses, and State radio (Radyo 1947, 10; Aşkun 1943, 350). Or rather, they were restituted—in the words of the nationalist elites. The lyrics of the collected songs were changed too, by both collectors and researchers. Since folk songs were assumed to express the pure and true Turkish language, any words which were thought to be inappropriate were removed or changed. Foreign words were removed, for example, and entire lyrics of folk songs that were written in a different language, such as Kurdish or Armenian, were rewritten into Turkish (Stokes 1992; Bayrak 2002, 21–25; Hasgül 1996, 43). Furthermore, any local dialects used in the songs were rewritten in a standard and pure Turkish dialect (Çakın 1937, 17; Yanıkoğlu 1943, 23; Oral 1936, 5). Similarly, the more questionable words of the songs, such as sexually suggestive words, considered to be inconsistent with the “noble and high characteristics” of the Turks, were eliminated or altered (Tuğrul 1945, 3). Since the nationalist researchers and collectors of the period considered the music reforms to be a way of returning folk songs to the people after excavating what was noble, civilized, and modern in them, the nationalists eliminated any songs which they thought did not fit those parameters. For example, Gazimihal plainly suggests that uzun havas (unmetered folk songs),2 long melodies with a free-form musical structure, should not be included in the collections since they did not fit the pentatonic scale (Gazimihal 1937, 292–296 passim).

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In the same vein, the researchers did not include songs which they thought lacked aesthetic beauty (Burdurlu 1941, 10–11; Kum 1941, 18; Atilla 1945, 276). According to eminent folklorists such as Vladimir Propp or Pertev Naili Boratav, it was meaningless to search for any aesthetic beauty through the lens of modern aesthetics, or to search for any essence in terms of the unspoiled, unmixed or noble features of a nation, or of technical development in terms of Western classical music, since folk materials, by definition, were culturally ever-changing. The more important thing is whether they reflect the emotions and thoughts of common people, not their supposed modern technical or subjective definitions of beauty (Boratav 2000b, 186). In conclusion, the collected folk songs were transformed in terms of both their lyrics and melodies in the Early Republican Period in Turkey on the basis of an inconsistent logic. On the one hand, Western music was assumed to be a sign of development. On the other hand, Turkish folk music was held up as the origin of Western classical music. Consequently, the musical reforms of the period progressed along this tense line between returning to “the essence” of Turkish music and reaching the level of modernity. As in the myth of the Adjuster’s Table, the nationalist elites “shortened and/or lengthened” the magnitude of the folk melodies in order to make them fit their national ideal. Conclusion What about the impact of the folk music reforms on the development of later musical genres in Turkey? Were the nationalist elites successful in rallying the whole country around one voice, or in making the nation rediscover and enjoy their now modernized folk melodies? We can analyze the successes and failures of early nationalist attempts at reworking folk music by reflecting on both the short and long-term ramifications of their efforts. In the short term, it is very hard to say that these policies were successful in their influence on the people. Even the early folklorists themselves severely criticized their early attempts due to notational mistakes because most folklorists collected songs without the help of a recording device. In this regard, their collections were considered unreliable (Nezihi 1934, 3; Pamirli 1943, 8). But, the most important goal for the nationalist elites was to disseminate the nationalized, modernized melodies among the people. Even when their method of modernizing society is reduced to an issue of public education, it is evident that the Kemalist elite failed to really spread folk songs to the majority of people in Turkey. Their means of distribution of nationalist ideology—institutions such as the People’s Houses or State radio—did not work as efficiently as the Kemalists had hoped. Being an expensive medium, radio was not available to the majority of people living in rural areas (Kocabaşoğlu 1980). Furthermore, the People’s Houses did not become true participants in the community where people could enthusiastically attend; rather, they continued as official ideological centers for the benefit of high-class local bureaucrats (Balkılıç 2009, 56–58). In light of the weakness of such tools, the masses remained generally ignorant of the cultural reforms of the newly established Republic. In the short term at least, the majority of the nation were indifferent to the folk music reforms of the nationalists. Nonetheless, when we look at the Republican period as a whole, calculating the lasting effects of their efforts appears much more complicated. Other dynamics such as: Large scale

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migration to the cities after the Second World War, various types of urbanization, proletarianization, the polarization of politics, the increasing commodification of culture, etc., all had effects in the national musical arena, as well as on other Kemalist reforms and ideology. However, the Early Republican music reforms articulated with those dynamics and clearly had an effect on the development of older genres, as well as the development of new musical styles in Turkey. For instance, the apparent gap between the modern and traditional national musical identities was a significant tension out of which arabesk was born. In another example, Ruhi Su, a very well-known opera singer, sang folk songs in his educated bass-baritone color voice throughout his career. The long-enduring hegemonic thought was that listening to Western music genres, especially classical music, was a sign of social development, and to an extent that idea persists today. In addition, State radio has continued to collect folk songs and broadcast them for a long time after the Early Republican period as purified both on radio and later on TV. Significant segments of Turkish society, just like my mother and her friends in our neighborhood and at her workplace, continued to listen to the songs for many years. In essence, the framework of cultural politics, through which the nationalist elites carried out their music policies during the Early Republican Period, remains one of the important paradigms in the formation and circulation of different musical genres and their mass appreciation in Turkey. Acknowledgements Special thanks to Ayça Tomaç and Cheryl Jacklin Pirano for their comments and criticisms. Notes 1. 2.

The word means “House of Songs” in old Turkish. A genre which does not have a plain style, performed with a free style in Turkish folk music.

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72 • Özgür Balkılıç Tüfekçi, Nida. 1983. “Türk halk müziği.” [The Turkish folk music.] In Cumhuriyet dönemi Türkiye ansiklopedisi cilt. 6. Istanbul: İletişim. Tuğrul, Mehmet. 1945. Ankara Örencik ve Ahi köylerinin türküleri [The folk songs of Örencik and Ahi villages in Ankara]. Ankara: Receb Ulusoğlu. Uzunoğlu, Sadık. 1951. “Türk halk müziğinde polifoni var mıdır?” [Does the poliphony exist in the Turkish folk music?] Türk folklor araştırmaları 1 (19): 290–291. Ülkütaşır, M. Şakir. 1972. Cumhuriyet’le birlikte Türkiye’de folklor ve etnografya çalışmaları [The folklore and ethnography studies in Turkey with the Republic]. Ankara: Başbakanlık. Yanıkoğlu, B. Aziz. 1943. Trabzon ve ahalisinde toplanmış folklor malzemesi [The folklore material collected in Trabzon and its periphery]. Istanbul: Kenan. Yönetken, Halil Bedii. 1934. “Halk terbiyesi ve operalar.” [The people’s education and operas.] Ülkü 3 (15): 202–205.

PART

II

Politics

This part consists of chapters mainly discussing political issues regarding popular music in Turkey. These chapters overlap either theoretically or thematically. The first two follow the theory of hegemony based on Stuart Hall, while the last two discuss Islamic issues in popular music in relation to globalization. However, each chapter diverges considerably in terms of the theoretical approaches applied to its particular focus of interest. In this sense, while Chapter 5 argues the role of the media in construction of hegemony shaping a musical genre, Anadolu Pop, Chapter 6 considers changes in political music as a mediation of class struggle. Similarly, while Chapter 7 considers Islamic pop from the perspective of glocalization, Chapter 8 discusses Sufi music as a world music practice from the perspective of globalization. The first chapter of Part II, “The Golden Microphone as a moment of hegemony” by Levent Ergun, focuses on one of the milestones in the history of popular music in Turkey, the Golden Microphone song contest organized by a mainstream newspaper between 1965 and 1968. The contest was a milestone as it signalled mass consumption of popular music, and also because of its programing which was an update on official state music policy. Levent Ergun, with his background in ethnomusicology, presents the contest in detail within the context of how official ideology is mediated by the media in favor of the dominant classes. Presentation of this topic in such detail from one of the theoretical perspectives of popular music studies is a crucial contribution. The second chapter, “Class struggle in popular musics of Turkey: Changing sounds from the left” by Ali C. Gedik, considers changes in political music from the 1960s to the 2000s with a case study on one of the foremost political music groups founded after the 1980 military coup. While the chapter is based on the theory of hegemony as defined by Stuart Hall, Gedik proposes to return to the Gramscian origins of this theory in some points. Namely, defining the agents of class struggle and considering Ceasarism as a moment of hegemony where coercion is legitimate instead of consent. Therefore, changes in political music are considered as a mediation of left-wing movements where successive military coups are cases of Ceaserism. Gedik also endeavors to apply ethnomusicological models for change in music in his study. Chapter 7, “The glocality of Islamic popular music: The Turkish case” by Ayhan Erol, first presents the place of music in Islam and then discusses both global and local appearances of Islamic pop. Erol, an ethnomusicologist, conceptualizes the Islamic popular music scene

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within a theoretical model, which puts the concept of rhizome as proposed by Deleuze and Guattari at the center of Robertson’s idea of glocalization. As a result, this chapter not only contributes to a scarcely studied topic, Islamic pop, but also presents it within an original theoretical model which could be applied to other popular music scenes, as well. The final chapter, “Politics of world music: The case of Sufi music in Turkey” by Koray Değirmenci, discusses a different appearance of Islamic music as a world music practice. Değirmenci with a background in sociology, considers the music of one of the heterodox Islamic sect, Sufism, and its emergence under the label of world music. The chapter discusses the concept of world music in relation to cultural imperialism and globalization processes, and focuses on an internationally recognized musician, Mercan Dede. Değirmenci considers this musical practice as postmodern spirituality, rather than particularly Islamic.

5 The Golden Microphone as a Moment of Hegemony Levent Ergun

Introduction This chapter focuses on the meaning and importance of a song contest in Turkish popular music history. It was organized by and with the sponsorship of the Hürriyet Daily News, one of the most prominent newspapers of Turkey, both past and present, and known as the Hürriyet Golden Microphone, and also the Golden Microphone Award. There are many reasons to give importance to these four contests, the first of which was held in 1965 and the last in 1968, a remarkable period in Turkish popular music history. Needless to say, a period of reaching audiences both through live performance and recordings will have social, economic, political, and cultural outcomes and this situation is of course valid for many similar events in other countries. Nevertheless, it is important to note that these patterns have different dynamics in various locations, societies, cultures, etc. and this is the intention of this chapter. Namely, with reference to the understanding that “popular musics are a series of acts, discourses and texts that gain specific meanings in specific moments” (Erol 2009, 105), this chapter attempts to analyze the Contest in accordance with the social, economic, political, etc. factors that shape a certain moment in Turkish popular music history, and to analyze the dynamics of these factors through the Golden Microphone. The questions that accompany this effort and which the research will attempt to answer are: Why was the Golden Microphone song-contest organized by a daily newspaper? What kind of economic or social benefit has the sponsor, the Hürriyet Daily News, gained from this Contest? How can the similarity between the Contest rules and the official or constituent ideology of the State be explained? What has been acquired through the symbiotic relationship of the Contest with the media and music industries? What are the advantages gained by the musicians who took part in the Contest and made it through to the finals? Is the musical style promoted by the Contest an abandonment of tradition or an articulation of previous styles? Is the general musical genre or style surrounding the Contest related to later musical movements and periodization? Doubtless, the strategy framed above and the questions to be answered will be of little use without the concepts that accompany this analysis of the historical materials. Therefore, a theoretical framework, that will enable the analysis of the material related to that specific historical moment, will be our priority.

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Media, Ideology, and Articulation: The Moving Equilibrium Ideology is generally perceived as a function of political and philosophical world views, and thus it contains many non-overlapping meanings. For instance, as in Marxist structuralism, wherein the emphasis is on hegemony and distinctive conditions, ideology is regarded as a design of imagined relations interacting with the real conditions of individual existence. Therefore, Althusser regards the mass media as an ideological state apparatus. However, the issue of ideology is not only the conflict between competing systems of meanings, but also the ability to show its own representations as the direct reflection of the truth and to produce its own meanings as experience. In other words, ideology is a representation system. Representation refers to active selection, presentation, configuration, and formation. It implies the existing meaning as well as the deliberate attribution of meaning to things. It is a production of meaning. In this case, the media is the signifying agent. Stuart Hall, who places the analysis of mass media in the realm of social, political, economic, and cultural transformations as a whole, is concerned with the role of media in the circulation and enhancement of hegemonic ideological definitions and representations. In this context, Hall proposes a “linear” communication model, which has had a far-reaching impact on media studies. According to Hall, traditionally, mass-communications research has conceptualized the process of communication in terms of a circulation circuit or loop. This model—sender/ message/receiver—has been criticized not only for its linearity, but also for its concentration on the level of message exchange and for the absence of a structured conception of the different moments as a complex structure of relations. But it is also possible (and useful) to think of this process in terms of a structure produced and sustained through the articulation of linked but distinctive moments—production, circulation, distribution, consumption, and reproduction (Hall 1980, 51). The relations of social classes, ideologies, and media are not inherent and compulsory spontaneous relations, but are, rather, relations of articulation. By the term articulation, Hall refers to a connection or link which is not necessarily given in all cases, as law or a fact of life, but which requires particular conditions of existence to appear, which has to be positively sustained by a specific process, which is not “external” but has constantly to be renewed and which can, under some circumstances, disappear or be overthrown, leading to old linkages being dissolved and new connections or re-articulations being forged. It is also important that an articulation between different practices does not mean that they become identical or that the one is dissolved into the other. Each retains its distinct determinations and conditions of existence (Hall 1985, 113–114). According to Hall’s assessment, the media is no longer only regarded as a group of institutions that reflect and support the consensus, but also as institutions that help the consensus to be produced and that produce consent. The key concept here is “hegemony.” According to Hall, hegemony implies that the dominance of certain formations is secured not by ideological compulsion, but by cultural leadership. It circumscribes all those processes by means of which a dominant class alliance or ruling bloc, which has effectively secured mastery over the primary economic processes in society, extends and expands its mastery over society in such a way that it can transform and re-fashion its ways of life, its mores and conceptualization, its very form and level of culture and civilization in a direction

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which, while not directly paying immediate profits to the narrow interests of any particular class, favors the development and expansion of the dominant social and productive system of life as a whole (Hall 1982, 81). However, hegemonic power, precisely because it requires the consent of the dominated majority, can never be permanently exercised by the same alliance of “class fractions.” Hegemony is not universal and “given” to the continuing rule of a particular class. It has to be won, reproduced, sustained. Hegemony is, as Gramsci said, a “moving equilibrium” containing relations of forces favorable or unfavorable to this or that tendency (Hebdige 1979, 16). One of the means by which the powerful can continue to rule with consent and legitimacy is, therefore, if the interests of a particular class or power bloc can be aligned with or made equivalent to the general interests of the majority. Once this system of equivalences has been achieved, the interests of the minority and the will of the majority can be “squared” because they can both be represented as coinciding in the consensus, on which all sides agree. The media become part and parcel of the dialectical process of the “production of consent”—shaping the consensus while reflecting it—which orientates them within the field of force of the dominant social interests represented within the state (Hall 1982, 83). This approach indicates that: While media institutions are able to be “free” and “independent” from the compulsions that are intended to manage them, they can also discover, so to speak, how to be articulated to the production and reproduction of hegemonic ideologies. Such institutions can gain strong consent as it is not completely wrong that they are independent from the direct manipulations of political or economic interests or of the state. Re-producing Official Ideology: Media, Sponsorship, and Popular Music As a media institution, through its sponsorship of the Golden Microphone, the Hürriyet Daily News clearly showed how it was possible for such institutions to be independent from direct compulsions and restraints while systematically and freely articulating themselves around positions that support the hegemony of the powerful. As a means of marketing communication, sponsorship is an investment in an event in money or in other ways aimed to give the benefit of a commercial potential in return. Two things are being purchased by sponsorship. One of them is the potential exposure to an event that has a target group, and the other is an image evoked by the event—an image that arises from the perception of the event given that there is an investment for commercial aims, sponsorship is similar to advertising in this sense (Yılmaz 2007, 588). However, sponsorship includes a tripartite relationship. Whereas in advertising the relationship is only between the consumer and product, in sponsorship there is a tripartite relationship between the consumer, product, and sponsor. Sponsorship is the provision of resources (money, labor, equipment, etc.) that are channeled to an event, usually not directly by an institution, but by an organization (Karadeniz 2009, 63). Sponsorship may also be used to position a brand in the market, in order to change its image in the frame of that market. Within this scope, we can say that the Hürriyet Daily

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News intended to reposition its brand, “newspaper”, in the youth market, by sponsoring the Golden Microphone song contest, and it made use of the contest as a popular music activity specifically for this purpose. While doing so, Hürriyet Daily News, as the sponsor, played an important role in both the reproduction of official or founder ideology and in the repositioning of the institution itself along with its changing journalistic perspective in the scope of capitalist relations of production, and surely in the production of active consent, by using its skill to control and manage the audience. Now by reviewing these factors, we aim to show the hegemonic relationships among them. The efforts of Kemalist reformers went far beyond modernizing the State apparatus as the country changed from the multiethnic Ottoman empire to the secular republican nation-state. They also attempted to penetrate into the lifestyles, manners, behavior, and customs of the people. The State tried to construct an official (Westernized) culture which underestimated the cultural needs of the people of Turkey. Of the cultural and artistic policies carried out by the State, music took first place. Ignoring traditional Turkish art music because of its Ottoman heritage, the political elite of the Republic preferred to approve of folk music and struggled to legitimize European classical music in order to create a national musical culture. Traditional art music was delegitimized by strictly limiting its institutions and instruction. Turkish students went to Europe in order to learn Western music. Upon returning to Turkey they began to construct “contemporary Turkish art music” as a kind of “musical syncretism,” combining folk music and Western musical techniques. So rural melodies “invented” by the State as Turkish folk music were used by Western music-educated musicians in order to create a new national music culture (Erol 2012, 43). We can realize that the Hürriyet Daily News, as a media institution, has always positioned itself in a manner that supports the hegemony of powerful or official ideology before becoming the sponsor of the Golden Microphone. Since 1948, when the Hürriyet Daily News was first published (until 2015), its core principle was stated as follows: In the efforts of Turkey to reach its goal of modernization, the Hürriyet Daily News issues qualified publications, considers its employees and pays attention to social problems. As in the past, and for the benefit of society, it will continue its support and its leading role in the future.1 The Golden Microphone sponsorship was the most important manifestation, this time in popular culture, of both Hürriyet Daily News’ (a mainstream media institution) ability to easily rearticulate itself with official ideology, and that it is an essential part of the “production of consent,” which means, while reflecting consensus, that it is also an essential part of the dialectic process related to cultural formation. In addition, Hürriyet Daily News was, in this case, the organizer of a commercial activity and carrying out its own battle for power at the same time. As was stated in its participation agreement, the Contest organized by the Hürriyet Daily News in 1965 aimed to “give a direction to Turkish music by using the rich techniques of Western music, performed with Western musical instruments” (Erol 2002b, 281). There was a significant parallel between the Contest agreement and the music policy of official

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ideology, both in terms of the “compulsory” inclusion of local or national musical material and how this local heritage needed to be treated. Moreover, the rhetorical similarity between the doctrinal tone prominent in official ideological discourse and that of the Contest agreement is striking. In other words, along with the importance attributed to music in the Republican cultural modernization project, under these market conditions, pop or rock musicians were benefitting from and the audiences listening to “Turkish folk music,” used within the scope of “official ideology.” All of this mediation was made by the sponsoring media institution, Hürriyet Daily News. This generation, including people who were into music, was in favor of change no matter in what form it is and moreover, despite all that is lacking, and despite all the “youth troubles”. It is a generation not only limited by the essentially financial goals like “development” and “industrialization”, but also deeply longing for cultural differentiation. (Belge 1983, 80) The capitalist relations which began developing in the 1960s changed “traditional” consumption models. Therefore, “entertainment” started to be perceived and experienced as a “modern” consumption model and leisure activity. As a result, it became possible for a media institution, or the government bloc linked with it, to be on the same wavelength as the expectations and demands of the majority. A Short Musical Panorama of the Early 1960s In the wider frame of popular music many sub-genres that arise between the artistic concerns and expectations of show business have, in almost every period, taken form according to their closeness to and distance from tradition, adding to the variety of musical life both by their genre names and their tonal or musical frames. Therefore, a wide range, reaching from the traditional Turkish art music composer Tanburi Mustafa Çavuş’s (YOD 1770) rabbit songs to longa, from foxtrot to syrto and rumba, or from kanto to tango, had been part of daily life from the first quarter of the eighteenth century to the 1950s (Erol 2002a, 62). Turning to the practices of Western-oriented popular music genres, as relate to our subject of focus, we can say that there were three main trends in the early 1960s. The first was cover versions of famous international rock ’n’ roll songs in English. The second was the rise of aranjman, which refers mainly to the performance of foreign (mostly English, French, and Italian) songs in Turkish. And the third was performances where folk melodies were merged with the conventions of Western popular music (Dilmener 2003, 43). In the first category, as in the second half of the 1950s (contemporaneous with its counterparts elsewhere in the world), there were many rock ’n’ roll bands. These included: The Navy Band, set up by Durul Gence in 1955; Şanar Yurdatapan’s band, Kuyrukluyıldızlar, and Erkin Koray ve Ritmcileri. By the 1960s, rock ’n’ roll songs written not in Turkish but directly in English started to appear. The musician who first popularized rock ’n’ roll in

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Turkey was Erol Büyükburç. “Little Lucy,” his hit that came out as a 78 rpm record in 1961, made him the first Turkish rock ’n’ roll star. With his performances and recordings, including the other two styles mentioned above as well, Büyükburç remained the uncontested star of the genre until the1970s. Aranjman songs had appeared long before those produced in the 1960s, although these had not been called arrangements per se. Examples include both the performance in Turkish of popular foreign tangos and operettas in the early years of the Republic and also songs identified with the movies of the Egyptian stars Ümmü Gülsüm (Umm Kulthum) and Abdulwahab (who both gained remarkable reputations in Turkey between the late 1930s and the 1950s). Nevertheless, these cases do not reduce the significance of arrangements, which stood out as a highly-preferred and influential performance-practice in the1960s. First example of this style based on, the well-received song “C’est Ecrit Dans Le Ciel,” performed by Bob Azzam. This song, translated into Turkish as “Bak bir varmış bir yokmuş” (Look, Once Upon a Time) by Fecri Ebcioğlu, was recorded by İlham Gencer, one of the most renowned musicians of the time (Meriç 2006, 206–207; Erkal 2014, 76). The song, released as a 78 rpm in 1961, is regarded as the first hit in the history of Turkish pop in non-academic Turkish popular music publishing or the history of light music with Turkish lyrics, as labeled by TRT (Turkish Radio and Television Corporation), the State broadcaster and accepted as a genre even by the national music press. Turkish covers of many original songs were made from the collaboration of another famous lyricist, Sezen Cumhur Önal, with Fecri Ebcioğlu. Many singers performed arrangements, from rock ’n’ roll star Erol Büyükburç to those with traditional Turkish art music backgrounds such as the gay icon Zeki Müren; from jazz musicians who might have looked down on other styles, to Ajda Pekkan, a Turkish superstar who made her reputation with this genre. The first hit of the third trend, the synthesis of folk tunes with Western popular music styles (mostly jazz, pop, and rock ’n’ roll), was “Burçak tarlası” (Field of Vetch), performed by one of the most extraordinary singers of the time, Tülay German, at the Balkan Melodies Festival on behalf of Turkey in 1964. This song, released as a 45 rpm in 1964, was the first significant example of performing local or folk tunes with Western musical instruments in the industry (Dilmener 2003, 62–63; Meriç 2006, 197). From the early 1960s, many concerts included examples of the style. For instance, Erol Büyükburç, who became popular in 1961 with his concerts in cities other than Istanbul, included many such tunes in his concerts; and when we look at Büyükburç’s discography, we see that he contributed to the trend in the recording industry as well, with two 1965 singles. Following famous musicians like Doruk Onatkut, İlham Gencer, Şanar Yurdatapan, Durul Gence, and Yurdaer Doğulu, many orchestras and bands became interested in combining local instruments with Western forms. When increased interest in folk tunes started to attract audiences and, thereby, commercial success, the trend attracted the attention of many amateur, semi-professional, and professional musicians. At this very moment, a media institution appeared to organize a song contest which would bring this interest to a head: The Golden Microphone.

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Giving a New Direction to Turkish Popular Music: The Golden Microphone Song Contest Although song contests or vocal competitions had been organized since the early years of the Republic, they remained relatively obscure, as there were limited ways to promote them. Contests in which the songs featured the popular music styles of the time started in the early 1960s. The most important of these were: “Caddebostan Ses Yarışması” (The Caddebostan Voice Competition), held in Istanbul in 1961; “Amatör Orkestralar Yarışması” (The Amateur Bands Contest), held in Ankara in 1962; and “Boğaziçi Müzik Festivali” (The Bosphorus Music Festival), held once a year between 1963 and 1965 and which ended up having a greater impact than the others. In the contest organized by Bosphorus University’s high-school, Robert College, there were categories like “best song,” “best male singer,” “best female singer,” “best band,” “best folk arrangement” (Dilmener 2003, 51, 55–56; Meriç 2006, 274–275). Thus original compositions, covering rock ’n’ roll songs and arranged folk tunes, all came together in one contest. In 1965 the last Bosphorus University concert marked the peak of folk-tune arrangements as part of contests. Contest Rules The Golden Microphone Award contest started in Istanbul with a preselection process made by a jury consisting of famous musicians chosen by the Hürriyet Daily News. The finalists, selected in the presence of a notary public, went on a concert tour that includes several cities in Anatolia under the organization of the sponsoring medium. For this, the finalist bands prepared two more songs of their own selection (folk-tune arrangements, rock ’n’ roll covers or original Turkish compositions), other than those used during the primary elimination process, and performed them during the concert tour. The public’s votes during the tour were added to the sum of the votes of the last concert night in Istanbul. There, officials, politicians, artists, and additional members of the public were present and the winners of the contest were thus decided (Dilmener 2003, 64–66). Deciding the Competing Bands: Preselection and Finalists There was no restriction on the number of musicians or bands who could participate in the contest. For instance, in 1965, there were 78 applications; but because of double applications and withdrawals, only 41 entrants remained. Of these, the jury selected 10 bands as finalists (Erkal 2014, 84). In 1966, there was an increase in the number of applicants and 55 bands participated in the pre-selection stage. In the 1966 contest, it was decided to limit each band to only seven musicians, as the winning band of the first contest had been too numerous. The jury first announced that there were five finalists; then they increased the number to seven. In the following two contests, there was an increase in the number of applications; nevertheless, the number of bands that passed the pre-selection stage remained the same. That there were very few female singers and musicians in the bands that passed

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the pre-selection phase is an indication that the old relationship between gender and music or popular music practices had not yet changed in the 1960s. The Contest Jury The jury consisted of well-known musicians who were invited by the Hürriyet Daily News. It had 80 members for the first contest, and an element of prestige was added because some of the most famous musicians of traditional Turkish art music at the time (M. Nurettin Selçuk, Refik Fersan, Safiye Ayla, etc.) were among them. The winner of that first contest, however, Yıldırım Gürses, an experienced professional traditional Turkish art music soloist, received a great deal of criticism. This also marked the beginning of criticism of the jury. In 1966, Zeki Müren’s presence on the jury (he was possibly the most famous singer in Turkey at that time) seemed to diminish the importance of the other 46 members. In the two subsequent competitions (1967 and 1968), however, the high-profile jury members helped keep interest in the competition alive. The Competition Awards We can sum up the awards as being 1) a concert tour around Anatolia, 2) the release of a single and 3) a cash prize. For the bands which were enthusiastic about giving concerts throughout Anatolia, being a part of the concert tour was the most important award. In addition, the competition introduced unsigned bands to the record industry. The sponsor undertook to make an album of the finalists’ songs. The Hürriyet Daily News also offered the winners cash prizes. In the first contest, the first three places; in the second contest, the first five places won the following cash prizes: First, 10.000 TL; second, 5.000 TL; third, 3.000 TL; fourth, 2.000 TL; fifth, 1.000 TL.2 Concert Cities, Spaces, and Public Voting The finalists were determined in the pre-selection stage that took place in Istanbul, the capital of culture in Turkey. Following selection of the 10 finalists at the first contest in 1965, concerts organized by the Hürriyet Daily News were held in Ankara (the second biggest city and capital), in Izmir (third largest), and in Adana (fourth largest). In the second contest (1966), other big cities were added to the circuit. The people from other cities (larger to smaller) such as Konya, Eskişehir, and Samsun, were also able to participate in the concert events and to vote. The finalists of the third contest (1967) gave concerts in even more cities than before: 11 in total including Kayseri, Mersin, Antalya, Denizli, and Balıkesir. Some eastern cities like Diyarbakır, Malatya, Urfa, etc. were added to the tour for the finalists of the last contest (1968), which lasted for 17 days (Dilmener 2003, 111). Considering that the Hürriyet Daily News established its own distribution network in 1963 and started being printed in the above cities almost at the same time, it is possible to say that its choice of the contest locations showed a preference for those that would contribute to increased circulation.

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The concerts took place in local cinemas, which were the main venues for public and artistic events at that time. There were not yet any halls dedicated to popular music concerts. By comparison, the movie-going habits of people in Turkey, who had access to cinemas in all the big cities by the middle of the 1960s, had increased dramatically over the previous ten years. Moreover, there was no nationwide TV broadcasting service available until the end of the 1960s. With its strength of local production and delivery, the 1960s were golden years for Turkish cinema (Özön 1995, 232). According to the 1953 report of the Ankara Urban Planning Council there were only 10 cinemas in Ankara, while this number exceeded 40 by 1970 (Şenyapılı 1971, 80). Moreover, rock ’n’ roll stars like Erol Büyükburç, nicknamed the “Turkish Elvis,” discovered together with their audiences that a cinema can also serve as a venue for concerts. Thus, we can say that cinemas were well-suited for these events. The voting was also performed by the audience present in the dual-purpose concert halls and cinemas. Ballot papers were distributed to people while they were entering the hall; while leaving after the concert, audience members placed their completed ballots in ballot boxes. The finalists were “listened to, applauded, and selected by the public” as per the headline of the the Hürriyet Daily News on April 6th, 1967. The Contest Sponsor The sponsor, in agreeing to sponsor a particular event or activity, buys the rights to be associated with the profile and image of the event and to exploit this association for commercial purposes. In sponsorship, both the sponsor and the sponsored activity become involved in a symbiotic relationship with a transference of inherent values from the activity to the sponsor (Meenaghan and Shipley 1999, 329). The symbiotic relationship between the Hürriyet Daily News and the Golden Microphone worked as follows: The Golden Microphone’s audience, who saw the name, logo, and other indicators of the media institution in sequence, learned that the sponsor and the event were associated with each other. This served as publicity for the newspaper. However, as opposed to direct advertising, the consumer is positioned as both a reader of the paper (in other words, the consumer of the main resource from which they receive news about the contest) and as a consumer of the contest itself, an event organized by the sponsor. Apart from being the consumer of these live performances, the audience is encouraged to purchase the resulting products issued by the record business, thereby adding another layer of consumer purchasing to the consumption process. Hürriyet Daily News makes money during all these three processes. In fact, in that period, journalism was moving away from its duty to advise and enlighten the public (as it had been doing for the previous 20 years) and towards a purely profit-centered attitude. After the first half of the 1950s, the circulation of Hürriyet Daily News, which had been just over 100,000, reached 650,000 for an average day in 1969 (Şenyapılı 1971, 75). Many people associated the increase in the sales of newspapers with increased literacy, which had improved following the foundation of the Republic. In fact, the literacy rate was 33 percent. This level increased to 40 percent in 1955; dropped a little to 39 percent in 1960; and rose to 49 percent in 1965. Without doubt, this increase had an impact on newspaper circulations. Moreover, while the urban population had been 17 percent in 1950,

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it increased to 30 percent in 1965. Other significant factors that increased newspaper sales were the generous inclusion of pictures, advertisements and short news stories. For instance, the yearly advertisement revenue of Hürriyet Daily News was 55 million TL in 1970. This rate corresponds to 40 percent of the whole newspaper advertisement revenue. Out of 10 pages of the Hürriyet Daily News in 1969, five and a half were advertisements. Two of the remaining four and a half pages were filled with comics and photographs. There were about two pages of news, but nearly a whole page of these was sports news. It seems normal that there would be more visual content than text in the newspaper of a country in which literacy is low, and when those who are literate are not particularly qualified (Şenyapılı 1971, 96). Anyway, it would not be incorrect to say that the news and photographs of the Golden Microphone competition not only contributed to increase circulation, but also helped to get a bigger share of the cake. It is also not hard to speculate that it would be easy for the media institution to influence musicians and audience alike (both of whom were aware of the wider cultural and musical shifts during the 1960s) about the musical genres it encouraged. Looking from the perspective of the musicians or bands who participated in the contest, the facts are: 1) Even if they could not make it to the finals, they gained valuable experience in the competition; 2) those who did make it to the finals were rewarded with both a concert tour and a recording contract in addition to a cash prize if they were the overall winners; 3) contest finalists, now recording artists, received greater prestige and advantages when looking for concerts in an increasingly crowded and competitive market. This demonstrates how this symbiotic relationship worked. The next step is to factor the Turkish record industry into this relationship. The Impact of the Contest on the Record Industry The contest functioned as a stimulus for the record industry, which was already moving towards a breakthrough at the beginning of the 1960s. While records were only being produced by five big companies in 1964, that number had increased to somewhere between 70 and 80 in 1969. While there were two record-manufacturing factories in 1963, there were 11 by 1969. The total number of albums sold by the industry at the end of the 1960s was worth 60 million TL (Şenyapılı 1971, 81). Until the 1960s, the period of 78 rpm records all produced by four big foreign companies (Columbia, Pathé, His Master’s Voice, and Odeon) continued with the advent of 7” singles in Turkey, some ten years after they had begun to appear in Europe. The arrival on the market of 45 rpms started the local recording era. In the second half of the 1960s, there were more than 30 local companies (Erol 2002a, 68). Important companies like Grafson and Herses were the record labels of non-Muslims, while Şençalar became the first “Muslim” record label in 1962. As stated in the contest rules, all the finalists had a recording contract under Hürriyet Daily News’ sponsorship. The albums of the finalists were pressed in vinyl in Italy and distributed by a company in Turkey called Melody. Hürriyet Daily News readers received a 25 percent discount (2.5 TL) for these records, which were normally sold for 10 TL.

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The Songs of the Competition: Genres, Styles, Rhythms, Artists, etc. Participants were amateur, semi-professional or professional bands who performed covers of the international rock ’n’ roll and R&B hit songs of the time (for example, by Elvis Presley, James Brown, and the Beatles). There were exceptions to this, such as the winner of the first contest. Composed and performed in the muhayyer kürdi maqam by the 1965 winner, Yıldırım Gürses, “Gençliğe veda” (Farewell to Youth) was a Turkish art music song in which several distinctive elements linked to each other inside different rhythmic layers. The song was well-received due to the powerful voice of Gürses and his 24-piece orchestra which included both Turkish and Western instruments. Nevertheless, there were people who criticized the winning song precisely because of these features. Especially, it was accused of being poly-instrumental rather than polyphonic Turkish music. The 1965 second-place winning song was an anonymous folk tune “Helvacı” (Halva Seller) performed to the rhythm of the favorite dance of the time, the twist, following a slow introduction with three backing singers. This lithe melody, a Gaziantep folk tune taken from southeastern Anatolia, was performed by the young members of Mavi Işıklar, who were influenced by the Beatles. The third-place winner was a band called Silüetler, performing rock ’n’ roll covers deeply influenced by the Shadows, as shown by the band’s name. And of course they performed as four guitarists just like the Shadows. Their contest piece was “Kaşık havası” (Spoon Tune), an anonymous folk melody. Performed in 9/8 (with beats in a pattern of 2+2+2+3), the most popular of Turkish aksak (limping) rhythms, this instrumental, with its brilliant guitar solos, attracted the Turkish audience. Summing up what the other seven finalist artists and their pieces have in common, we can say: The songs generally originated from folk tunes taken from several different parts of Turkey. And in addition to characteristic rhythmic patterns, the performances represented the sonic ideals and styles of the rock ’n’ roll groups that the bands took as their role models. In the second contest, held in 1966, it was compulsory not to have previously released a record and not to have entered another contest with the same songs. These new rules were meant to encourage amateur and semi-professional artists. The first-place winner was Silüetler, the third-place winner of 1965. Their Shadows-influenced swing-flavored entry was “Lorke lorke” (a local folk dance, and song tune). The second-place winner of the contest, Mavi Işıklar, was 1965’s second-place winner as well. Their 1966 song was of a similar nature to Silüetler’s. With its 9/8 rhythm, entertaining lyrics, doo-wop vocal arrangements, rock ’n’ roll influence, and a melody from Isparta, “Çayır çimen geze geze” (Wandering in the Meadows) became popular. Selçuk Alagöz and his band won third place with the song “Bahçelere geldi bahar” (Spring Came to the Gardens) in this contest. The characteristics of the other four finalists were similar to those from the previous year. In 1967, Mavi Çocuklar won the contest with their song “Develi daylar” (Unsaddled Camels), a Central-Anatolian folk-tune. Besides their contest song, in the final the band performed a belly dance piece “Tamzara” in a style that combined swing, samba, and belly dance influences in a 9/8 aksak rhythm, and they also performed James Brown’s hit “I Feel Good.” That year’s second place went to Cem Karaca ve Apaşlar who performed their song, “Emrah,” considered to be one of the earliest examples of Anatolian rock/pop, and “I Can’t Control Myself” by a famous British band of the time, the Troggs. In third place, Rana

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Alagöz performed “Konya kabağı” (Konya Pumpkin), a tune from Konya. Rana Alagöz also performed “Little Man” (by Sonny & Cher), one of the hit songs of that time, and an Elvis Presley hit, “See See Rider.” The last of the Golden Microphone contests was held in 1968. The winner of the contest was Türkiye Petrolleri Anonim Ortaklığı (T.P.A.O.) Batman Orkestrası (the Turkish Petroleum Partnership Batman Orchestra). The Orchestra consisted of engineers and technicians from this particular petroleum company in Batman, a city located in southeastern Anatolia. Thus it attracted much attention. Their contest song was “Meşelidir enginde dağlar meşeli” (Wide Oak-Filled Mountains), a folk-tune arrangement with R&B-influenced riffs. Haramiler won second place with “Arpa buğday daneler” (Barley Stalks), a CentralAnatolian folk-tune. Moğollar, a group which remained popular for the next 10 years, won third place. The Samim Bilgen composition, “Ilgaz” (name of the mountain), performed by Moğollar, is a school song taught as part of secondary-school music pedagogy in Turkey since the 1950s. Therefore, the Golden Microphone paved the way for the Anatolian rock genre which would last from the end of the 1960s to the end of the 1970s. The musical style central to the contest connected with trends which appeared later. This period was socio-politically, culturally, and musically different than previous periods. In those years, political polarization was gradually increasing, and a hegemonic process occured through music and other cultural discourses. Clearly, the Golden Microphone set an example for similar music contests. Many such contests were organized, and it is not possible to mention all of them here in detail. But the important ones were: Günaydın newspaper held a contest (also called the Golden Microphone) twice: Once in 1972 and again in 1979. Starting in 1967, the Milliyet newspaper, Hürriyet Daily News’ biggest commercial rival of the time, took a step that would enable these kinds of contests to reach a larger audience. Milliyet’s Inter-High-School Music Competition had changed into a music and dance competition by the 1970s and lasted until 1999. Dozens of commercial television stations, emerging following the end of the State monopoly of mass media in the early 1990s, made music contests part of television programming for all audiences. During the years when different Turkish popular music mainstreams (pop, rock, arabesk, etc.) were in vogue, the contests focused on those mainstreams, while Turkey experienced different socio-cultural movements and periods of change bringing us up to the present day. Of course, this all reflected on the contests, and surely, as it is in different moments of “manufacturing consent”, Turkey experienced articulation processes connecting with those moments. Conclusion The mass media are of central importance from many points of view in industrialized or developing societies. This fact does not mean that people fulfill all their cultural needs through the media. However, it also does not change the fact that the mass media, which have become an essential element of modern life, are important sources in the rationalization and regulation of people’s experiences (Erol, 2002a, 46).

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Between different forms of popular culture and mass media, there is a characteristically symbiotic relationship in which one almost cannot survive in the absence of the other. The Golden Microphone popular music contest, organized under the sponsorship of the mass medium, the Hürriyet Daily News, requires going deeper than the surface of this relationship. The role that Hürriyet Daily News plays in the circulation and support of dominant ideological definitions and representations is more important. If we consider the Golden Microphone as a moment, then here is a dynamic arena for the media, official ideology, musicians, and audience. In this arena, elements of both resistance and consent, issues of the past and the future; hence, overlapping and conflicting elements are available. Moreover, popular music itself is the most significant cultural form that echoes the process of obtaining active consent. Along with the importance that had been attributed to music in the cultural modernization project of the Republic, pop and rock musicians were benefitting from, and the audience listening to “Turkish folk music” which had been previously used within the scope of “official ideology.” The mediation process was conducted by the sponsoring media institution, Hürriyet Daily News. In this way, conditions were created in which musicians, orchestras, and bands could justify covering folk tunes through the re-invention of tradition, albeit in their own preferred musical styles. As it was able to respond to the reproduction of public consent, support for the class status of hegemonic power fractions, and the commercial expectations of musicians, these conditions made it apparent that the process of hegemony proceeds in a specific moment. Acknowledgement For his contributions to the review of an earlier version and the theoretical construction of this research, I would like to express my gratitude to Ayhan Erol. I would also like to thank Heather Özaltun for editing this chapter. Notes 1. 2.

Accessed October 28, 2014. www.hurriyetkurumsal.com/Default.aspx?pageid=iLVFgZzm46A=&kutuid= La7zhIAxjuQ=. In the 1960s, one U.S. dollar was equal to about 10 Turkish liras.

Bibliography Belge, Murat. 1983. Tarihten güncelliğe [From the historical to the contemporary]. Istanbul: Alan Yayıncılık. Dilmener, Naim. 2003. Bak bir varmış bir yokmuş: Hafif Türk pop tarihi [Look, once upon a time: History of Turkish light pop]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Erkal, Güven E. 2014. Saykodelik yıllar: Türkiye rock tarihi 1 [Psychodelic years: History of rock in Turkey]. Istanbul: Esen Kitap. Erol, Ayhan. 2002a. “Bir dönemin popüler ikonu olarak Zeki Müren.” [Zeki Müren as a popular icon of a period.] In Biyografya 3, 43–98. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. ——. 2002b. “Türkiye’nin sosyo-kültürel ve müziksel değişim atmosferinde bir Aşık Mahzuni.” [Aşık Mahsuni, a figure in the changing socio-cultural and musical atmosphere of Turkey.] Folklor/Edebiyat 32: 275–286. ——. 2009. Popüler müziği anlamak [Understanding popular music]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayıncılık. ——. 2012. “Music, Power and Symbolic Violence: The Turkish State’s Music Policies during the Early Republican Period.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 15 (1): 35–52.

88 • Levent Ergun Hall, Stuart. 1980. “Encoding/Decoding.” In Media Studies: A Reader, 2nd edn, edited by Paul Morris and Sue Thornton, 2000, 51–61. Washington Square, NK: University Press. ——. 1982. “The Rediscovery of ‘Ideology’; Return of the Repressed in Media Studies.” In Culture, Society, and the Media, edited by Michael Gurevitch, Tony Bennett, James Curran, and Janet Woollacott, 52–86. New York: Methuen. ——. 1985. “Signification, Representation, Ideology: Althusser and the Post-Structualist Debates.” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 2 (2): 91–114. Hebdige, Dick. 1979. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge. Karadeniz, Mustafa. 2009. “Pazarlama iletişimi kapsamında sponsorluk faaliyetlerinin önemi.” [Importance of sponsorship in the context of marketing communication.] Journal of Naval Science and Engineering 5 (1): 62–75. Meenaghan, Tony, and David Shipley. 1999. “Media Effect in Commercial Sponsorship.” European Journal of Marketing 33 (3/4): 328–347. Accessed February 5, 2015. doi: 10.1108/03090569910253170. Meriç, Murat. 2006. Pop dedik: Türkçe sözlü hafif batı müziği [Pop: Western light music with Turkish lyrics]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Özön, Nijat. 1995. Karagözden sinemaya [From karagöz to cinema]. Ankara: Kitle Yayınları. Şenyapılı, Önder. 1971. “1970’lerin başında sayılarla Türk basını.” [Turkish press with numbers in the early 1970s.] Amme idaresi dergisi 4 (4): 67–115. Yılmaz, R. Ayhan. 2007. “Marka farkındalığı oluşturmada sponsorluk ve rolü: Eskişehir Sinema Günleri’ne yönelik bir değerlendirme.” [Sponsorship and its role in the construction of label awareness: An evaluation of Eskişehir cinema days.] Anadolu Üniversitesi sosyal bilimler dergisi 7 (2): 587–605.

Filmography Avdaç, Metin (director). Kara altından altın mikrofona [From Black Gold to Golden Microphone]. 2009. Demirkıran, Gökçe Kaan (director). Müzikte bir deney Anadolu rock [An Experiment in Music, Anatolian Rock]. 2006. Sarıkaya, Muharrem (director). Bir varmış bir yokmuş. [Once upon a Time] TRT, 2001.

Discography Alagöz, Rana. “Konya kabağı”/“Bahçelerde börülce.” [Konya Pumpkin/Cowpea at the Gardens] Melodi Plak H 021, 1967, 7” 45 rpm. Altın mikrofon Türk müziğinin miladı/56 unutulmaz eser. [Golden Microphone, Milestone of Turkish Music/56 Unforgettable Songs] DMC 20150, 2002, compact disc. German, Tülay. “Burçak tarlası”/“Mecnunum Leylamı gördüm.” [Field of Vetch/I am Madly in Love, I saw My Lover] Ezgi Plakları 45–101, 1964, 45 rpm. Gürses, Yıldırım. “Canım İstanbul”/“Gençliğe veda.” [My Darling Istanbul/Farewell to Youth] Diskofon Plak H 010, 1965, 45 rpm. Haramiler. “Arpa buğday daneler”/“Aya bak yıldıza bak.” [Barley Stalks/Look at the Moon, Look at the Stars] Diskofon Plak, 1968, 45 rpm. Mavi Çocuklar. “Develi daylar”/“Tamzara.” [Unsaddled Camels/Tamzara] Melodi Plak H 020, 1967, 45 rpm. Mavi Işıklar. “Çayır çimen geze geze”/“Pınarbaşı.” [Wandering in the Meadows/Springhead] Melodi Plak H-013, 1966, 45 rpm. ——. “Helvacı”/“Kanamam.” [Halva Seller/I would not be Cheated] Diskofon Plak H 05, 1965, 45 rpm. ——. İyi düşün taşın. [Contemplate Carefully] CY Music LP.002, 2011, LP. Compilations. ——. Mavi ışıklar. [Blue Lights] Ada Müzik 8692646502158, 2002, compact disc. Compilations. Moğollar. “Ilgaz”/“Kaleden kaleye şahin uçurdum.” [Ilgaz/I Flew Hawk from a Castle to Another] Diskofon Plak, 1968, 45 rpm. Silüetler. “Kaşık havası”/“Sis.” [Spoon Tune/Fog] Diskofon Plak H 008, 1965, 45 rpm. ——. “Lorke lorke”/“Gülnihal.” [Lorke Lorke/Rose Sapling] Diskofon Plak H 15, 1966, 45 rpm. TPAO Batman Orkestrası. “Aya bak yıldıza bak”/“Şeker alalım.” [Look at the Moon, Look at the Stars/Let’s Buy Sugar] Philips Pf 357268, 1968, 45 rpm. ——. “Kara toprak”/“Ay beyaz deniz mavi.” [Black Earth/Moon is White, Sea is Blue] Melodi Plak H 022, 1967, 45 rpm. ——. “Meşelidir enginde dağlar”/“Aç aç kolların.” [Wide Oak-Filled Mountains/Open Your Arms] Diskofon Plak, 1968, 45 rpm.

6 Class Struggle in Popular Musics of Turkey Changing Sounds from the Left Ali C. Gedik

This chapter is a result of fieldwork made in 2006 on one of the most prominent political music groups in Turkey, Grup Kızılırmak, founded after the 1980 military coup. The ethnography mainly consisted of interviews with members of the group and political witnesses, historical research on Turkey between 1960 and the 2000s, research on recordings of this period, and observations of concerts of the group in Izmir, Ankara, and Istanbul. My main argument is that a particular popular music practice could be understood by the mediation of particular agents of class struggle. In this sense, I consider political music as a particular popular music practice and the left-wing movement as a particular agent of class struggle in Turkey. Therefore, I tried to contextualize my ethnography of 2006 within the history of Turkey and political music. First, I would like to discuss a cliché about the history of Turkey, which either considers class struggle as a trivial issue or skips it altogether. This cliché is based on a certain understanding of the modernization process of Turkey which is well summarized by Stokes (2010, 8): “Modern Turkey has routinely been understood as a secular modernizing state imposing reforms on a ‘traditional’ and Islamic periphery.” This cliché also paves the way to see the history of Turkey as a product of struggles between an authoritarian (secular) center, and a liberal (Islamic) periphery (Stokes 2010, 9). The fundamental premise of this approach is based on the nature of capitalist social formation in Turkey. It is considered either as abnormal capitalist formation as a consequence of a bourgeois revolution without a bourgeois class, or as a social formation where capitalism is not the dominant mode of production due to a lack of a real bourgeois revolution. The argument about the normality of capitalism both in Marxism and other intellectual traditions has been under attack most effectively by the Marxist school of thought called “political Marxism.” Even capitalism in England was considered abnormal by leading Marxists Tom Nairn and Perry Anderson due to a lack of a bourgeois class and a bourgeois revolution comparable to that of France. The foremost representative of this school, Ellen M. Wood called this comparative approach a “bourgeois paradigm”: The curious thing about this paradigm is that, while it contains significant elements of truth, it does not correspond to any actually existing pattern of historical development.

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In England, there was capitalism, but it was not called into being by the bourgeoisie. In France, there was a (more-or-less) triumphant bourgeoisie, but its revolutionary project had little to do with capitalism. Nowhere was capitalism the simple outcome of a contest between a (falling) aristocracy and a (rising) bourgeoisie, and nowhere was it the natural product of a fatal encounter between urban dynamism and rural idiocy. (Wood 2012, 33) This paradigm and discussions around it have much in common with similar discussions in Turkey. There is a new generation of Marxist historians in Turkey who are deeply inspired by E.P. Thompson, political Marxism and a number of pioneering labor historians of the Ottoman Empire and Turkey such as Donald Quateart and Erich J. Zürchrer. Their studies show how the Empire was articulated to capitalist relations of production through Europe and there was a particular class struggle, in turn.1 However, the theoretical arguments of political Marxism (PM) have implications far beyond these discussions. First of all, PM challenges Soviet Marxism by rejecting the technological determinist and thus evolutionary interpretations of Marxism. Second, PM challenges Western Marxism by giving priority to relations of production instead of forces of production. Finally, PM underlines the primacy of class struggle in the making of history. All three of these arguments are based on PM’s theoretical position about the origins of capitalism and a new approach towards the base-superstructure model, which transcend it by the determinacy of social relations. This study tries to follow PM by giving primacy to the class struggle for understanding the history of Turkey. Class Struggle in Popular Music Although the relationship between classes and popular music was considered in a number of studies either Marxist or inspired by Marxism, the main focus of this relationship was usually discussed with reference to either subculture (Hebdige 1979), politics of taste (Bourdieu 1984) or cultural identity (Frith 1996). Similarly, the relationship between mass movements and popular music, especially rock was another subject which could be considered as a relationship between political struggle and popular music—eg. (Garofalo 1992). The studies on the relationship between the music industry (Garofalo 1987) or music technology (Manuel 1993) and popular music are also considered as a cultural struggle from the perspective of Marxism. There are also studies on the relationship between politics and popular music, again especially on rock—e.g. (Bennett et al. 1993). No doubt, these studies are among the milestones in the study of popular music. However, it is the study by Middleton (1990) which presents a necessary theoretical framework for the study of class struggle in popular music, inspired by Stuart Hall and thus by Antonio Gramsci. Middleton bases his study on Hall’s reformulation of Gramsci’s conception of hegemony by considering popular culture as a battlefield of classes where hegemony arises and is secured (Hall 2007, 453). This process operates through an articulation where existing elements are combined “into new patterns or by attaching new connotations to them” (Middleton 1990, 8), and articulation operates by the mediation of class struggle (ibid 9): “the classes fight to articulate together constituents of the cultural repertoire in

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particular ways so that they are organized in terms of principles or a set of values determined by the position and interests of the class in the prevailing mode of production.” Middleton (1990, 9) also criticizes some ethnomusicologists for searching a homology between social structure and class interests, and proposes the theory of articulation as a much more complex approach. Therefore, Middleton (1990) both presents a historical framework for the last two hundred years of music history, and gives examples of how articulation operates in certain musical trends and pieces, especially from the USA and Europe. However, as Middleton (1990, 32) expresses, his theoretical framework needs to be studied further and requires to “look more closely at processes of change (and structures of stasis), particularly the roles of the forces and the relations of production.” Anyway, Middleton’s (1990) general theoretical framework presents an important step for the study of change in popular music from a Marxist perspective. Inspired by Gramsci, he proposes to focus on moments of radical “situational” changes, and applies this approach to the history of music in developed Western societies in general. Political Music and Musical Change First, I would like to define “political music” based on the patterns and functions identified by Dunaway (1987) for political music, mainly in the USA. According to the lyrics, Dunaway (1987, 286) gives a list of subjects covered in political music: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Protest and complaint, direct or indirect, against exploitation and oppression. Aspiration towards a better life, a more just society. Topical satire of governments, politicians, landlords, capitalists. Political philosophical themes; political and ethical ideals. Campaign songs of particular parties and movements. Commemoration of popular struggles, past and present. Tributes to heroes and martyrs of the popular cause. Expressions of international working-class solidarity. Comment on industrial conditions and working life and the role of trade unions. Protest against racial and sexual stereotyping. Appeals for renewable energy sources and environmental betterment.

Dunaway (1987, 286) also proposes a list for the functions of political music, as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Solicit or arouse support for a movement. Reinforce the value structure of individuals who support this movement. Create cohesion, solidarity and morale for members of this movement. Recruit individuals into a specific movement. Evoke solutions to a social problem via action. Describe a social problem, in emotional terms. Divide supporters from the world around them (an esoteric-exoteric function). Counteract despair in social reformers, when hoped-for change does not materialize.

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These lists should be considered according to the context as Dunaway (1987, 270) mentions: “When the historical context of a song changes, so does its meaning. Along with history, a second factor in context is performance.” He also underlines the importance of the role of individual musicians in live performance. Although it is frequently expressed that continuous change is one of the most important characteristics of popular music against the standardization critique of Adorno, musical change is studied much more in detail by ethnomusicologists. One of the distinctive qualities of ethnomusicological studies on musical change is their stress on musical systems and the role of individual strategies as developed by musicians. Therefore, I will present three approaches proposed in the study of musical change by ethnomusicologists. However, since these ethnomusicological models are mostly based on non-Western traditional music cultures, they need to be carefully applied to popular music. Especially considering the political music as defined according to the subjects and functions listed above, the wide range of musical genres in the USA “from musical comedy to hillbilly country-and-western, from folksongs of social protest to avant-garde jazz” (Dunaway 1987, 281) articulated within political music would reveal insufficiencies if ethnomusicological models would be applied directly. John Kaemmer (1993, 174) defines musical change as follows: “Change occurs both in the sounds of music and in its meanings, uses and functions.” Then he discusses musical change under three broad categories based on this definition (Kaemmer 1993, 182–203): Social incentives and constraints, cultural contact, and Western influence on the musics of the world. The approach of John Blacking (1977, 2) towards musical change is similar to Kaemmer but much stricter. According to Blacking (ibid) “musical change cannot be treated in exactly the same way as other kinds of socio-cultural change, and current sociological and anthropological theories of change cannot be freely adopted and adapted. . . .” He underlines that though musical activities could overlap with non-musical activities, they cannot be reduced to sociological principles. In fact, the strictness of Blacking’s approach is based on his definition of musical change. Blacking (1977, 19–20) proposes that a change in the musical system should be detected in order to talk about a musical change, and gives a detailed list of instances for the application of his approach. Finally, Bruno Nettl (1996) considers musical change within the context of relations between the past and future of societies. In fact, Nettl (1996) is more interested in “the techniques societies have devised to prevent, inhibit, and control change, and to maintain musical tradition, permitting it to flourish while other things in life are forced to change” than the musical change itself. Changing Sounds From the Left Before presenting my case study, I would like to clarify the main argument of this chapter. While hegemony is defined in cultural studies in general as a process almost without any agents, Gramsci’s original definition stresses the role of agents. Hegemony is a matter of a political bloc, an alliance of classes, constructed by the intellectual leadership of a fundamental class—bourgeoisie or proletariat—which presents its own interests as the interest of the whole society.

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According to Gramsci, intellectuals have a special role in the construction of hegemony. In other words, class relations are also mediated through intellectuals. However, intellectuals do not only consist of philosophers, writers, and artists, they also include political leaders, various degrees of organizers, and various degrees of state managers, as well. In this sense, a political party is the embodiment of an intellectual collective which will reproduce consent in order to gain hegemony. More particularly, the main interest of Gramsci is the construction of hegemony by a revolutionary working-class party, literally the Italian Communist Party, where Gramsci was one of the leaders. Hall et al. (2007) clearly share the definition of hegemony proposed by Gramsci. However, Hall’s definition (2007) also deviates from Gramsci’s original conception. First of all, he did not define agents as mediating the struggle for hegemony2 and second, this struggle is defined as a “constant battlefield where no once-for-all victories are obtained but where there are strategic positions to be won and lost” (Hall 2007, 447). On the contrary, Gramsci’s (1992, 219–222) conception involves Caesarism, where repressive instruments (police and army) are applied on behalf of the dominant class once it loses hegemony. Although it is controversial among Marxists whether consent and coercion are categorically separated (Hoffman 1984), or, as conceptualized in a dialectical relationship (Anderson 1976/77) by Gramsci, the process of bold coercion is dominant in Caesarism. I hold that consent and coercion should be conceptualized in a dialectical relationship, at least for Turkey. As a result, while I share Hall’s application of the theory of hegemony to popular culture, I suggest it is important to return to Gramsci for defining agents mediating the struggle for hegemony in order to study popular culture. Therefore, I consider the left-wing movement as an agent mediating the class struggle in popular music. I use left-wing movement to refer to socialist and communist parties and organizations which claim to represent the ultimate interest of the working class by leading a revolution. Nevertheless, it should also be mentioned that there are a number of important studies on the relation between political music and either left-wing movements or directly communist or left-wing parties (e.g. Denisoff 1968; Dunaway 1979; 1980; Frith and Street 1986; Zaimakis 2010; Smith 2011). However, none of them have applied the theory of hegemony as presented by Gramsci, Hall or Middleton, as far as I know. Change of Political Music in Turkey In order to discuss the historical context of political music and its changes in Turkey, I will follow Hall (2006) and apply a historical periodization by defining the turning points where the relations between popular and dominant cultures are qualitatively restructured and transformed. Since the focus of interest of this study is the period between the 1960s and 2000s, the year of the most destructive military coup, 1980, is taken as the turning point. It is not coincidental that the date of the military coup coincided with the international turning point of the years 1978–1980 marking the beginning of neoliberal political economies on a world-wide scale as discussed by Harvey (2005, 1). However, it was not a real coincidence because neoliberalism was not possible in a country where left-wing and working-class movements were so powerful, both politically and culturally, as in Turkey before the coup. Therefore, the coup of 1980 represents a

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response to a crisis of hegemony in Turkey, where a third party, the military, takes the role of the ruling class as a case of Caesarism. In this sense, while the mediation of the left with political music has significant implications before the coup, the degree of mediation reduces considerably after it, which represents a kind of “emancipation” of political music. Therefore, the three broad categories of Kaemmer (1993) for musical change; social incentives and constraints, cultural contact, and Western influence on the musics of the world, all acted on political music via the strong and weak mediations of the left-wing movement before and after the coup. As a consequence of the rise of the left, the dominant pattern in political music before 1980 was the articulation of left political discourses onto mainstream Western popular music idioms and/or folk music idioms by nationally successful musicians who were already performing in those idioms. This pattern reminds the development of working-class music in the USA as stated by Keil (1985, 122): “For a working-class style to grow and prosper the dominant culture’s stereotypes must be accepted and transcended.” There were two dominant patterns in political music after the coup: The first is the diminishment of left political discourses in the musical idioms of the foremost musicians of the political music scene before the coup. The second is a clear break with the musical idioms of the past, and consequently experiments in new musical idioms coupled with a lack of past left political discourses by the musicians who were quite new on the popular music scene. Political Music Before 1980 Although it is not possible to talk about a left-wing movement before the 1960s, the first example of political musician, Ruhi Su, was performing folk songs as early as the 1940s. He was a strong figure and he continued to perform and affect political music and musicians until the 1980s. The rise of a left movement could only happen in the 1960s following the foundation of the Workers Party of Turkey (Türkiye İşçi Partisi, TİP) in 1961. The movement was mainly a result of the great liberal transformation of Turkey in the 1950s, and the rise of social movements all around the world in the second half of the 1960s. Massive rural-to-urban migrations starting in the 1950s not only resulted in a growing working-class but also increased the number of Alevis in western cities. Both Alevis and their music provided sources of militant and musical materials for the left as a consequence of their long-standing suppression by the mainly Sunni ruling class. During the 1950s, rock ’n’ roll, jazz and other Western popular music styles were mainly played in night clubs while traditional Turkish art music was mainly played in gazinolar (sing. gazino). Two distinct trends emerged by the early rock in the 1960s: Aranjman and folk song. Aranjman consisted of the performance of mainstream Western popular songs with Turkish lyrics, while folk song consisted of the performance of folk songs in Western popular styles. These trends emerged together with the introduction of 45 rpm manufacturing technology in the 1960s which enabled a domestic music industry and massive local consumption of music for the first time (Akgül and Çoğulu 2006, 81). Tülay German was one of the singers of mainstream Western popular music, including jazz, performing in night clubs during 1961–1962. Her first single was an arrangement of

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a folk song which expresses anger against feudal landlords; it became one of the first great successes of Turkish popular music. While continuing to perform in nightclubs where leftwing intellectuals also met, she also performed at meetings and concerts of the TİP together with Ruhi Su and Alevi folk musicians such as Aşık İhsani, Aşık Nesimi Çimen, and Aşık Ali İzzet. Thus, German is the first major example of the pattern of change in political music prior to 1980. Although this folk song trend paved the way for Anadolu Pop, this new style was distinguished by the use of the idioms of rock ’n’ roll. Therefore, young musicians performing rock ’n’ roll in English, started to perform folk songs in the same idiom. Özer (2003, 203) explains the popularity of folk song in relation to migration, student movements and folk song revivals worldwide. A political witness of the period, a leader of the student movement and member of the TİP, Metin Çulhaoğlu, said that audiences were very impressed when both wellknown and less known Alevi folk musicians performed at student clubs in Ankara. According to Çulhaoğlu, the reason was that the audience—mainly students and intellectuals— could see that the struggle for socialism was not meaningless given that even ordinary people could understand the struggle and express it musically (personal communication, 15.10.2006). The rise of the 1968 movement led to the first great working-class demonstrations and to the radicalization of the student movement in 1970. This period ended with the coup of 1971 when left-wing parties and organizations were banned, and three leaders of the student movement were hanged. Although the coup meant heavy oppression of the left, it did not take long for the left to rise again, but this time more massively and radically than in the 1960s. Anadolu Pop musicians quickly radicalized after the coup. Cem Karaca was one of the most prominent names at the time. Similarly, either groups founded before the coup such as Moğollar and Kardaşlar or groups founded after the coup such as Dostlar and Dervişan by musicians performing in the 1960s articulated their musical discourses for the support of the left. Most of these groups played alongside both Cem Karaca and the rather new but effective soloists of political music in the 1970s such as Edip Akbayram and Selda Bağcan. Similarly, Alevi musicians continued to be part of the left-wing movement and radicalized their musical discourse by performing their own compositions with radical lyrics in the Alevi folk music style. Besides the use of folk songs another style emerged during the 1970s: Performance of folk songs within a syhthesis of Western classical and mainstream music accompanied by bağlama with a repertoire of Alevi folk songs and original compositions. This musical approach was applied to Greek folk songs by the communist composer, Mikis Theoderakis, in the 1960s with international success. The most prominent Turkish exponents of this style were Zülfü Livaneli, Sadık Gürbüz, and Rahmi Saltuk. A different political music style of the 1970s did not include folk songs. Timur Selçuk was one of its prominent names. He was already a successful composer and singer, performing Western mainstream music, especially in the style of French chanson of the 1960s. In the 1970s, he started to articulate left-wing political discourse with his style. Şanar Yurdatapan and Atilla Özdemiroğlu who were performing rock ’n’ roll and jazz music in the early 1960s,

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and mainstream music in the early 1970s, founded a music company, ŞAT Production, through which they arranged performances of their own music and also supported political musicians by arranging and performing their music. As Dunaway (1987) says, his categories could be variously applicable to the political music of other regions of the world, and excepting the last three above, they almost fit political music of this period in Turkey. The lyrics of songs were either taken from poets of the left or written by leftist musicians. Most of the solo singers and groups performed in contexts such as May Day demonstrations and political-party meetings. Meanwhile, State censorship and oppression carried on. Considering the monopolistic quality of State radio and TV, censorship corresponded to completely exclusion of political music from audio/visual media. However, not only political music but also a new style, arabesk, was also excluded by State media yet both found opportunities for mass consumption through the introduction of the music cassette in the mid 1970s (Akgül and Çoğulu 2006, 82). The growth of extreme nationalist movement supported by the State in its fight with communism also negatively affected the situation of political music during the 1970s. It should also be noted that other areas of popular culture were also strongly mediated by the left—cinema, theater, literature, newspapers, and magazines. The left-wing movement not only motivated political music, but also constrained it in some cases. Political musicians both starting to perform after the 1980 coup or who were already performing before the coup, experienced various constraints as they had in the 1970s. Bülent Somay, a member of the group Mozaik, one of the few political music groups emerging after 1980, says that there were strong prejudices against performing rock and jazz as they were considered to be aspects of cultural imperialism (quoted in Kutluk 1997, 71). Similarly, Nejat Yavaşoğulları, the founder of the 1980s rock group Bulutsuzluk Özlemi, says that people in the student movement suggested that he cut his long hair and give up the guitar and instead start playing the bağlama (ibid). Galip Çevik, a political witness of the period, both a member of the Türkiye Komünist Partisi (the Turkish Communist Party, the TKP—illegal until 2001), and a local musician, said in our interview that, although the left had some prejudice against the guitar in favor of the bağlama, this could not be generalized to the whole movement (personal communication, 09.09.2006). Similarly, Metin Çulhaoğlu said that playing the bağlama was considered much more legitimate than the guitar in the 1960s. These examples clearly indicate the dominant pattern in political music before 1980. The strong mediation of the left in this pattern can be considered within the three broad categories of musical change suggested by Kaemmer (1993). First, the left not only mediated political music as a social incentive by its ideals and massive audiences but also as a constraint when political musicians diverged from the musical ideals of the movement. Second, the movement mediated cultural contact with Alevis who migrated en masse from the rural East to the urban West, and thus with Alevi folk musicians, musical styles, and repertoire. Almost the meaning of Alevi was considered to be a sign of being a communist in this period. Third, Western influence on political music in Turkey was not only mediated by the movement in terms of Western mainstream music but also the music market and industry.

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Political Music After 1980 After the 1980 coup, the hegemony of the left in popular culture dramatically decreased. In the case of popular music, some musicians were imprisoned, many emigrated abroad, and the musicians who remained were subjected to heavy State suppression and censorship. One of the dramatic changes in political music after the coup was the end of the musical synthesis embodied in Anadolu Pop which disappeared in its fragmentation into Turkish rock and folk. The first appearance of Turkish rock on the political music scene was the group Bulutsuzluk Özlemi founded in 1984. Similarly, the collaboration of the folk musicians, Arif Sağ, Musa Eroğlu, Yavuz Top, and Muhlis Akarsu, resulted in five albums between 1983 and 1989, and signaled a revival of Turkish folk music, which continued to flourish through the 1990s. At the core of the revival was Alevi folk music with a repertoire far from political associations (Erol 2009, 80). Another dramatic change was a considerable withdrawal of political discourse from the music of political musicians of the 1970s. Especially, the politically radical musicians, Cem Karaca and Zülfü Livaneli, were the most visible examples. I saw a concert of Cem Karaca’s in Ankara in the mid-1990s in a football stadium during the spring festival of the Middle Eastern Technical University. The audience consisted of students cheering throughout the concert demanding that Karaca perform one of his old political songs. However, he did not comply and he was loudly booed. In addition to the suppression of the left in Turkey, the left’s decline world-wide led to a deep feeling of defeat. Thus, self-criticism and the search for new methods and ideas to further the political struggle were also dominant on the left. Derya Köroğlu, a leading member of the group Yeni Türkü, founded in 1979, expresses this mood as follows: The 80s signaled that the world would no longer be the same, as before, so we as musicians ought to correspond with the process. You could no longer just pick up a folk tune and sing politically loaded lyrics to the audience who were aware that things were changing in the socialist world. That is, you might have been defeated militarily. But, if the ideology just disappears, there must be something wrong with the ideology. (quoted in Özer 2003, 211) Different repertoires of the early political music of this period emerge due to the lack of interest of political musicians toward the Alevi folk music repertoire. After the coup, Yeni Türkü focused on the musical cultures of the Mediterranean, especially Greece. Ezginin Günlüğü, founded in 1982, was distinctive for their performance of Azeri folk songs. Mozaik’s first album, a live recording, consisted of folk songs from various countries. Çağdaş Türkü, founded in 1985, performed their own compositions rather than traditional songs, even though they used the bağlama. Soon after the group disbanded, one of the founders, Tolga Çandar, took to specializing in folk songs from the Aegean region with the release of his first solo album in 1987, Türküleri Egenin (Folksongs of the Aegean). Yeni Türkü performed instruments which had not been used in political music before such as the kemençe (bowed string), kanun (box zither), ud (lute), and the buziki, as well as electronic keyboards and rhythm-machines. While those acoustic instruments were usually associated with traditional Turkish art music, the electronic instruments were almost

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uniquely found in a new style, taverna, which emerged at the end of the 1970s. Keyboards and rhythm-machines became two of the dominant musical components both in political music and mainstream popular music during the 1980s. Mozaik was distinguished from the other groups by its use of rock and jazz styles and electronics, without any reference to folk music after their first album. While bağlama, as one of the symbols of political music was missing from Mozaik and Yeni Türkü, it was included by Çağdaş Türkü and Ezginin Günlüğü as well as classical guitar, flute, violin, and electronic instruments. The poets drawn on for lyrics also says something about the changing subjects of political music after 1980: Very few of them could be considered left-wing. This trend was more or less observable in all the political music of the period. The explanations of Derya Köroğlu from Yeni Türkü could help to explain the motivations behind the changes in political music after the coup: The protest music of the time in Turkey had a pessimistic mode with slow rhythms and simplistic, mostly syllabic melodies, and, was “against” something. In my music, however, I have never tried to be against anything, but instead, to unify people in music. Therefore, rather than Turkish protest music, I was very much attracted by Latin American political pop, and notably music of the band Inti İllimani, which seemed to be more vivid and captivating. (Özer 2003, 207–208) While most of this musically pessimistic feel could be generalized to apply to the new groups, Yeni Türkü played in a more vivid and captivating style. Generally, the sound and lyrics of the political music after the coup had very little in common with the political music of the 1970s. While the term devrimci müzik (revolutionary music) was used for the political music before the coup, özgün müzik (original music) emerged to describe this new trend. In fact, considering Dunaway’s categories (1987) for political music it would be contradictory to define these samples as political music at all. According to subjects, we could only find two of Dunaway’s categories (1987): Aspiration towards a better life and a more just society, and philosophical themes and ethical ideals. According to functions, the most apparent seems to be to counteract despair in social reformers when hoped for changes do not materialize. However, a number of events such as miners’ strikes, public-worker demonstrations and student movements from the mid-1980s to the early 1990s resulted in a certain rise of the left-wing movement. A number of socialist parties were also founded in this period. Therefore, these first political music groups after the coup had a considerable audience among youth, although not nearly as large as the mass audiences for political music in the past. These groups usually performed at concerts in universities and in various concert halls. I remember a concert of Yeni Türkü at a sports hall in Izmir at the end of the 1980s. The hall was full of young people highly excited about the concert. I also remember a performance of Bulutsuzluk Özlemi in Ankara at a congress of the first socialist party founded after the coup in 1988, the Socialist Party (Sosyalist Parti, SP) in the early 1990s.

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In summary, as a member of the student movement in Ankara, I remember that Grup Yorum, Ezginin Günlüğü, Bulutsuzluk Özlemi, and Yeni Türkü were all popular in the movement. However, I also remember the overall sad mood of their political music, excepting the music of Bulutsuzluk Özlemi and Yeni Türkü. In particular, Grup Yorum, founded in 1985, considerably diverges from this trend by its quite direct political discourses covering most of the categories of Dunaway’s subjects and functions. The group was also distinguished by its performances at political events and meetings. Thus, Grup Yorum experienced State violence very frequently either by censorship or imprisonment. However, their sound shared with the wider trend; the use of keyboards and rhythmmachines. They also shared a similar sound to özgün müzik, especially that of Çağdaş Türkü and Ezginin Günlüğü by their use of classical guitar and flute. The repertoire of the group was far from Alevi folk music but did include folksongs from various regions, including some Azeri songs. Their radical politics notwithstanding, they were also pessimistic. The subjects of their songs were mostly about prison, sacrifice, torture, and death which of course intensified the pessimistic feel of their music. I remember a congress of the United Socialist Party (Birleşik Sosyalist Parti, BSP) founded in 1994, of which I was a member. One of the musical events at the congress held in a small Ankara wedding hall was a performance of Circassian folk songs by Azmi Toğuzata— another example of the divergence of political music from Alevi folk music. The most challenging event in political music during the 1980s was the emergence and great success of Ahmet Kaya. Kaya articulated political discourse to a synthesis of arabesk and tavern—two of the dominant trends in popular music at the time. While his vocal style, his bağlama playing, and his lyrics, drew on arabesk, his use of the keyboard and rhythmmachine recalls the sound of taverna. Therefore, Kaya’s audiences extended far beyond the student movement and the left, including a wide range of classes and working-class people who were not necessarily part of the left. Since intellectuals of the left considered arabesk as a style which leads the proletariat into fatalism instead of political struggle, their regard for the music of Ahmet Kaya was not much different. However, Kaya had no interest in such criticism. His bağlama performance style was strongly criticized by Ruhi Su—“bağlama cannot be played like this” in a personal conversation with Su at a time when Kaya was hardly known. Kaya wrote as the title of the poster for his first public concert “bağlama can be played like this,” soon after his conversation with Su. Kaya expressed the motivations for his music as follows: I had some responsibilities against the stream of history . . . I saw that populism came before being a revolutionary. Youth had some expectations. As I said, usually it is the opposition of emotions . . . I wish that youth be grieved with the music of Ahmet Kaya . . . Grieved with their own souls and their own songs . . . I belong to this part of life . . . That’s all I could do at this time. (quoted in Özbek 2003, 131) I remember a concert of Ahmet Kaya in a big circus tent in Izmir when I was at highschool during the mid 1980s. My parents and their friends who were never members of

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the left-wing movement took me to the concert. I also remember that many of my friends at school were fans of Ahmet Kaya. People I occasionally met during those years such as truck drivers and dolmuş (public minibus) drivers—symbols of arabesk—all were fans of Kaya. Thus, while Ahmet Kaya’s music functioned to counteract loss of hope among social reformers, it had much broader functions for “ordinary” people. While Alevis and their music became less important for the left, the rising Kurdish rebellion in the East by the mid-1980s resulted in more mass migration from the rural East to the urban West. The performance of Kurdish folk music in the context of political music, such as the concerts of Grup Yorum displayed solidarity with the Kurdish movement. There were a number of groups with Kurdish names founded in the 1990s which performed only Kurdish music and supported the Kurdish movement. These examples indicate the second dominant pattern in political music after 1980. The weak mediation of the left in these changes can be considered in the three broad categories of musical change proposed by Kaemmer (1993). First, the left lost its power of mediation over political music, in terms of social incentive and as a result of its ideals being under question and a lack of mass audiences. Second, the left also very weakly mediated the cultural involvement of Kurds in their mass migration, thus including Kurdish folk musicians, their musical styles and repertoire. Third, the Western world music influence on political music in Turkey was loosely mediated by the left. Finally, it should be also noted that other areas of popular culture were also very weakly mediated by the left—such as cinema, theater, literature, newspapers, and magazines. Popular culture was largely dominated by the dominant culture, in contrast with the period before 1980. The Case of Grup Kızılırmak Grup Kızılırmak was formed in 1990 by İlkay Akkaya and Tuncay Akdoğan, two musicians who had left Grup Yorum and İsmail İlknur. Their first album, released in 1990, was typical of the political music of the time in terms of instrumentation and repertoire, notwithstanding the inclusion of march tunes and more direct political discourse. However, their second album in the same year was completely based on Alevi folk music. The third album in 1991 consisted of political march tunes and songs. Singer İlkay Akkaya explained this change as a response to the collapse of the Soviet Union (personal communication, 31.08.2006). Their sixth album was again completely based on Alevi folk music. The next album was mainly based on their own compositions, distinguished by the use of instruments and the band’s style, which had nothing particularly to do with political music. The clarinet was reminiscent of jazz, the violin and darbuka were reminiscent of alaturka. The zurna was reminiscent of wedding music where the davul and zurna are played outdoors. The bağlama player, İsmail İlknur, said that the album was experimental but was criticized for being “soft”; İlkay Akkaya added that the album was criticized for being petit bourgeois. Both of them said they did not take these criticisms seriously and it was one of their most loved albums, and they regarded these criticisms as the clichés and formalisms of the left.

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Dramatic change in Grup Kızılırmak’s music continued during the 1990s. The instruments played by the group included almost all the folk and traditional art music instruments of Turkey, which was something rather new in political music. Their sound became more acoustic, and reflected the use of professional studio musicians—a new significant factor compared to the period before 1980—who could easily perform in many styles. The political discourse of their music became more indirect. I asked them the reason for the change from electronic to acoustic instruments and they explained that the change was because of their better financial situation. However, two successful albums similar to Grup Kızılırmak’s new sound had already come out in the 1990s. One was Işık doğudan yükselir (Light Rises in the East) by Sezen Aksu and the other was Kardeş Türküler by the group of the same name. Both albums were distinguished by the inclusion of folksongs from different ethnicities living in Turkey, the variety of folk instruments and thus their sounds. This was the moment when the emergence of multiculturalism and world music during the mid-1990s coincided with the Turkish folk music revival. The opening of new venues, türkü barlar (folksong bars) during the 1990s where mainly folksongs and sometimes political music were played, marked another change in the scene. Feride Yükseloğlu, owner of an Izmir record shop, told me they did not categorize özgün müzik and folk music on different shelves, something I’d noticed. She said that customers usually wanted to see these genres together (personal communication, 09.12.06). This can be considered as a case of political music converging with the dominant musical idioms. Türkü barlar were also places where people met—mainly adults but also some students. People could also dance folk dances together (e.g. halay—a circle dance commonly performed at political gatherings). Fieldwork on türkü barlar by Ayhan Erol (2009) in Izmir found that the profile of the clientele was 80–90 percent Alevi Turks, Alevi Kurds, and Sunni Kurds and 10–20 percent intellectuals from the left-wing movement. Therefore, the political meanings, uses, and functions of music performed at türkü barlar was quite different from that of the concerts and meetings of the left. Çulhaoğlu said that before the 1980s there were no such special venues where people could listen to political music and also nowadays people spend their spare time outside much more than before (personal communication, 15.10.06). While half of the repertoire of Grup Kızılırmak consisted of folksongs from the Turkish folk music revival excluding Alevi folk music, the other half was made up of songs without any political discourse. İlkay Akkaya explained this change by the preferences of their audience. She said that part of their audience preferred the group’s own songs, while another part preferred their versions of folksongs. At an Ankara concert in 2006 I saw the audience accompanying both repertoires enthusiastically. Especially, audiences approved of the group’s drummer, Yaşar Aydın, who had recently joined the group and had written most of the non-political songs. They also stopped performing Kurdish songs during the 2000s. I asked them why and Akkaya replied that she didn’t speak Kurdish but had performed Kurdish songs to support Kurds and their struggle. When speaking, and thus singing, in Kurdish became legal in 2000, they gave up singing in Kurdish because there were Kurdish music groups by then who could sing much better in Kurdish than they could.

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I also asked why they do not use political poetry for lyrics, and why they started performing certain instruments in particular ways which are quite unfamiliar to political music. Both Akkaya and İsmail İlknur answered that those poems were unsuitable for the melodic structure of the group’s style. They explained the reason for including new instruments and styles is a natural necessity of the songs. I also asked Akkaya why they no longer performed march tunes from political demonstrations; she replied that the melodies are more important than the lyrics and if they could find march tunes as melodic as “Avusturya İşçi Marşı” (the Austrian Workers’ March, Arbeiter von Wien), then they would perform such marches as well. İlknur answered my question as follows: “Since there is no massive left-wing movement, it would not be honest to perform march tunes” (personal communication, 15.10.06). Thus I felt a degree of political pessimism from both members of the group. I was interested to see that while the political discourse of the group was decreasing, they continued to perform at political events, meetings, and concerts. As a member of the TKP since the early 2000s, I saw the group play at various Party meetings. I asked Akkaya the reason and she replied that their songs might be telling more personal stories but their political activities continued. I should underline that I saw the group perform their older, more political songs and singer Akkaya communicating with audiences telling the political background of the songs, even for the ones which are not obviously political. Furthermore, Grup Kızılırmak was one of the groups most frequently experiencing State suppression along with Grup Yorum. The group’s recording of a very popular folksong, “Urfa’nın dağları” (The Mountains of Urfa), and which has no political implications was banned by the State. However, performance of the same song by anyone else was completely unrestricted and the song was performed by many famous musicians around the same time. Discussion and Conclusion In summary, change in political music is presented in terms of changes in repertoire, performance spaces, instruments, and styles, justifying the argument of Kaemmer (1993, 174): “Change occurs both in the sounds of music and in its meanings, uses, and functions.” As a result, I have tried to show how the left mediated change in political music. In this sense, it can be said that while the articulation of political discourses of the left to mainstream Western popular and folk music styles was primary before the 1980 coup, this process seems to have operated in reverse after the coup. This became more apparent after an experimental period of political music. For example, in the case of Grup Kızılırmak mainstream Western popular music (e.g. world music) and folk music idioms (e.g. the Turkish folk revival) were articulated to political discourse of the left in ways that were not particularly clear. I prefer to refer to this as the “emancipation” of political music due to the lack of a strong left at the time, which corresponded to both less constraint and a less committed audience. It should be added that two of the criteria for musical change proposed by Blacking (1977, 20) could be seen in political music after 1980: A transformation of the musicmaking process (e.g. the use of studio musicians) and a change in the conceptualization of

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existing music (e.g. özgün müzik). Similarly, two of the main ways of musical change defined by Nettl (1996) could be seen during the same period: Musical change may contradict or mitigate cultural change and music may play a special role in cultural change. While political music after the coup mainly mitigates cultural change, only one group, Grup Yorum seemed to contradict it. It could be said that since political music after the coup mainly mitigates cultural change, it also plays a special role in cultural change. It is interesting to note that while most of the groups and solo musicians either disappeared (e.g. Grup Kızılırmak) or lost popularity (e.g. Yeni Türkü), Grup Yorum became more successful with a series of concerts, titled “Independent Turkey” attracting around 100,000 people in each of three concerts between 2012 and 2015. Although, the group’s sound continued to change, they’ve never softened the radical political discourses with which they started. However, it should be mentioned that arguments derived from the analysis of recordings of political music, over a wide range of periods, should be carefully evaluated in new studies, notwithstanding the limited interviews with witnesses used in this study. The case study of Grup Kızılırmak based on direct observation and face-to-face interviews provided more personal information and thus allowed an investigation of the musicians’ motives in the course of the group’s musical changes. For example, it would not be possible to learn the reasons for releasing an album based on the music of political march tunes just after the collapse of the Soviet Union without this study—another example of how musical change can contradict cultural change. Similarly, musicians’ explanations about the articulation of dominant musical idioms to their own musical idioms, provided ideas about their emic perception of musical change. The answers they gave about the retreatment of political discourse in their music or their preferences for certain new instruments and performance styles were simply based on melodic structure. If the study could include melodic, harmonic, and formal analysis of the musical examples considered, it would give deeper insights for the analysis of musical change. We also need to discuss the categories of political music defined by Dunaway (1987). While the music of Grup Kızılırmak shifted considerably from political to dominant musical idioms, the group was still perceived as a political music group as a consequence of their political actions. In any case, the political music of this period was also generally considered as such by audiences, notwithstanding a lack of direct political discourse and actions. It seems that despite the lack of most of political music’s themes, these examples successfully worked to counteract despair among social reformers and create cohesion, solidarity and boost morale for the left. However, the functions of political music before and after 1980 need to be studied in more detail. I remember a night in 2010 when we met working-class friends at a pavyon (a kind of nightclub where hostesses entertain male customers by simply having conversations at tables on demand) in a street where you could not meet with middle or upper-class people in Izmir. Young and middle-aged male customers were listening to the records of Grup Yorum while they were having intimate conversations with the hostesses. It should be added that people on the left were not only listening to political music. Savaş Al, an old political witness of the period, a member of the TİP in the 1960s, said in our interview that they were listening to popular music from the dominant culture as well.

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He had known the leaders of the 68 movement who were executed after the coup in 1971. He told me that those young people were not “crude” revolutionaries listening to only folksongs, on the contrary they were also listening to foreign rock groups like Led Zeppelin and Western-classical composers like Beethoven (communication, 10.09.06). Similarly, my uncle, Levent Gedik, from whom I learned to play the bağlama when I was eight years old, was active in the left in the 1970s. He was a fan of Zülfü Livaneli, and also a fan of arabesk, especially Orhan Gencebay. Finally, it is also important to remember that if there had been no coup in 1980, political music would have changed as a consequence of many other factors—such as neoliberal political economy, changes in music technology, and in the music industry and globalization processes which were not possible to cover in his study. However, we can refer for example to changes in political music in Britain where of course there was no coup. The change in Britsh political music from the Rock Against Racism of the 1970s to Red Wedge of the 1980s was no less dramatic than the change of political music in Turkey. To summarise, I have tried to follow Middleton (1990, 99) by looking “more closely at processes of change” in popular music but unfortunately could not consider “particularly the roles of the forces and the relations of production” in this study, something I hope to cover in future work. Acknowledgement I would like to express my gratitude to Ayhan Erol for his comments and Levent Ergun for discography. I would also like to thank Nick Hobbs for editing the English. Notes 1. 2.

For complete literature on this subject see Yalçınkaya (2014a; 2014b). Hall (2006) considers the State as an agent in conforming popular culture to the dominant culture in his more recent study.

Bibliography Akgül, Özgür, and Tolgahan Çoğulu. 2006. “Bugünden geçmişe bakarken 60’lı-70’li yıllarda Türkiye’de müziğin sektörel arka planı.” [Looking back at the past from today’s perspective: The Turkish music industry in the ’60s and ’70s.] In 60’lardan 70’lere 45’lik şarkılar [45 rpm song singles from the ’60s to the ’70s], edited by Ayhan Akkaya and Fehmiye Çelik, 79–88. Istanbul: BGST Yayınları. Anderson, Perry. 1976/77. “The Antinomies of Antonio Gramsci.” New Left Review 100: 5–79. Bennett, Tony, Simon Frith, Lawrence Grossberg, John Shepherd and Graeme Turner, eds. 1993. Rock and Popular Music: Politics, Policies, Institutions. London and New York: Routledge. Blacking, John. 1977. “Some Problems of Theory and Method in the Study of Musical Change.” Yearbook of the International Folk Music Council 9: 1–26. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Denisoff, R. Serge. 1968. “Protest Movements: Class Consciousness and the Propaganda Song.” The Sociological Quarterly 9 (2): 228–247. Dunaway, David King. 1979. “Unsung Songs of Protest: The Composers Collective of New York.” New York Folklore 5 (1–2): 1–19. ——. 1980. “Charles Seeger and Carl Sands: The Composers’ Collective Years.” Ethnomusicology 24 (2): 159–168. ——. 1987. “Music and Politics in the United States.” Folk Music Journal 5 (3): 268–294.

Class Struggle in Popular Musics of Turkey • 105 Erol, Ayhan. 2009. Müzik üzerine düşünmek [Thinking on music]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. Frith, Simon. 1996. “Music and Identity”, In Questions of Cultural Identity, edited by Stuart Hall and Paul Du Gay, 108–127. London: Sage Publications. Frith, Simon, and John Street. 1986. “Party Music.” Marxism Today 31 (6): 28–32. Garofalo, Rebee. 1987. “How Autonomous Is Relative: Popular Music, the Social Formation and Cultural Struggle.” Popular Music 6 (1): 77–92. Garofalo, Rebee, ed. 1992. Rockin’ the Boat: Mass Music and Mass Movements. Boston, MA: South End Press. Gramsci, Antonio. 1992. Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci. Translated and edited by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Hall, Stuart. 2006. “Popular Culture and the State.” In The Anthropology of the State: A Reader, edited by Aradhana Sharma and Akhil Gupta, 360–380. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. ——. 2007. “Notes on Deconstructing the Popular.” In Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, edited by John Storey, 442–453. London: Pearson. Hall, Stuart, Robert Lumley and George McLennan. 2007. “Politics and Ideology: Gramsci.” In On Ideology, edited by Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, 45–76. Oxon: Routledge. Harvey, David. 2005. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. New York: Oxford University Press. Hebdige, Dick. 1979. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge. Hoffman, John. 1984. The Gramscian Challenge: Coercion and Consent in Marxist Political Theory. Oxford: Blackwell B. Publishers. Kaemmer, John E. 1993. Music in Human Life: Anthropological Perspectives on Music. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Keil, Charles. 1985. “People’s Music Comparatively: Style and Stereotype, Class and Hegemony.” Dialectical Anthropology 10 (1–2): 119–130. Kutluk, Fırat. 1997. Müzik ve politika [Music and politics]. Ankara: Doruk Yayınları. Manuel, Peter. 1993. Cassette Culture: Popular Music and Technology in North India. London and Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Middleton, Richard. 1990. Studying Popular Music. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Nettl, Bruno. 1996. “Relating the Present to the Past: Thoughts on the Study of Musical Change and Culture Change in Ethnomusicology.” Music & Anthropology Journal of Musical Anthropology of the Mediterranean 1. Accessed 15 October 2011. http://umbc.edu/MA/index/number1/nettl1/ne1.htm. Özbek, Meral. 2003. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular culture and the arabesk of Orhan Gencebay]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Özer, Yetkin. 2003. “Crossing the Boundaries: The Akdeniz Scene and Mediterraneannes.” In Mediterranean Mosaic: Popular Music and Global Sounds, edited by Goffredo Plastino, 199–220. New York and London: Routledge. Smith, Evan. 2011. “Are the Kids United? The Communist Party of Great Britain, Rock Against Racism, and the Politics of Youth Culture.” Journal for the Study of Radicalism 5 (2): 85–117. Stokes, Martin. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Wood, Ellen Meiksins. 2012. The Ellen Meiksins Wood Reader, edited by Larry Patriquin. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Yalçınkaya, Doğan Y. 2014a. “Türkiye’de işçi sınıfı, tarihyazımı ve sınıf bilinci.” [The working class of Turkey, historiography and class consciousness.] Toplumsal tarih 245: 24–29. ——. 2014b. “Sefaletten ihyaya: Türkiye işçi sınıfı tarihi ve E.P. Thompson.” [From poverty to good fortune: The Turkish working class and E.P. Thompson.] Tarih ve toplum- yeni yaklaşımlar 17: 201–221. Zaimakis, Yiannis. 2010. “ ‘Forbidden Fruits’ and the Communist Paradise: Marxist Thinking on Greekness and Class in Rebetika.” Music & Politics 4 (1) Accessed 27 June 2011. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.3998/mp. 9460447.0004.102.

Interviews Feride Yükseloğlu, 09.12.2006, Izmir. Galip Çevik, 09.09.2006, Izmir. İlkay Akkaya, 31.08.2006, Istanbul. İsmail İlknur, 15.10.2006, Ankara. Metin Çulhaoğlu, 15.10.2006, Ankara. Savaş Al, 10.09.2006, Izmir.

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Discography Akarsu, Muhlis. Aşık olan durmaz ağlar. Kalan Müzik, 1998, compact disc. ——. “Ecevit’ten zam geliyor”/“Bizi böyle eden bir gün.” Kral Plak 968, n.d., 45 rpm. ——. Gurbeti ben mi yarattım. Pınar Stereo 19, n.d., 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Halk ozanı Muhlis Akarsu. Uzelli 408, n.d., audio cassette. ——. Muhlis Akarsu. Türküola, 1977, 331⁄3 rpm. Bulutsuzluk Özlemi. Bulutsuzluk özlemi, Piccatura, 1986, audio cassette. ——. Güneşimden kaç. Ada Müzik 015, 1995, compact disc. ——. Uçtu uçtu. Ada Müzik, 1989, compact disc. ——. Zamska. Ada Müzik, 2009, compact disc. Çağdaş Türkü. Bekle beni. Ada Müzik AYM 601, 1986. audio cassette/331⁄3 rpm. Çandar, Tolga. Güzel İzmir. Ankara Sound Centre, 2010, compact disc. ——. Türküleri Egenin. Kalan Müzik, 1987, compact disc. ——. Türküleri Egenin 2: Bodrum hakimi. Kalan Müzik 102, 1997, audio cassette. ——. Türküleri Egenin 3. Kalan Müzik 227, 2001, compact disc. Eroğlu, Musa., and Muhlis Akarsu., and Yavuz Top. Muhabbet 6. Kalan Müzik, 1995, compact disc. ——. Muhabbet 7. Kalan Müzik, 1995, compact disc. Ezginin Günlüğü. İstanbul gibi. Çimen’s Yapım, 2015, compact disc. ——. Ölüdeniz. Göksoy Plakçılık 004, 1990, compact disc. ——. Oyun. Ada Müzik, 1995, compact disc. ——. Sabah türküsü. Ezginin Günlüğü Müzik Yapımevi, 1986, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Seni düşünmek. Ezginin Günlüğü Müzik Yapımevi, 1985, 331⁄3 rpm. Grup Kızılırmak. Aynı göğün ezgisi. Seyhan Müzik, 1992, compact disc. ——. Figan. Metropol Müzik, 2001, compact disc. ——. Geçmişten geleceğe Pir Sultan Abdal. Nepa Müzik Yapım, 1990, compact disc. ——. Güneşin olsun. Seyhan Müzik, 1993, compact disc. ——. Pir Sultan Abdal’dan Nesimi’ye Anadolu türküleri, Son Müzik, 1994, compact disc. ——. Yılkı. Seyhan Müzik, 2005, compact disc. Grup Yorum. Eylül. Kalan Müzik CD 200, 2000, compact disc. ——. Haziranda ölmek zor. Cem, 1991, audio cassette. ——. Hiç durmadan. Kalan Müzik 041, 1993, audio cassette. ——. İleri. Kalan Müzik 060, 1994, audio cassette. Kardeş Türküler. Doğu. Kalan Müzik CD 109, 1999, compact disc. ——. Hemâvâz. Kalan Müzik CD 263, 2002, compact disc. ——. Kardeş türküler. Kalan Müzik CD 062, 1997, compact disc. ——. Kerwanê (best of). Network Meiden NW 234044, 2015, compact disc. Sağ, Arif, Musa Eroğlu, and Muhlis Akarsu. Muhabbet (2) 1. Şah Plak, 1987, audio cassette. Yeni Türkü. Akdeniz Akdeniz. Göksoy Plakçılık 86–34-U-116, 1982, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Aşk yeniden. Göksoy Plakçılık CD 050, 1992, compact disc. ——. Buğdayın türküsü. ZE Plak YT 1, 1979, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Günebakan. Dost YT 03, 1986, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Şimdi ve sonra. Doğan Music Company 103273, 2012, compact disc. ——. Vira vira. Göksoy Plakçılık CD 024, 1990, compact disc. ——. Yeşilmişik. Göksoy Plakçılık 0099, 1988, audio cassette.

7 The Glocality of Islamic Popular Music The Turkish Case Ayhan Erol

A Short Introduction to the Place of Music in Islam Music has been the subject of debate from early times to the present day in the Muslim world. Throughout history, Islamic legal scholars and theologians have disagreed about the value and function of singing and instrumental performance, i.e. the value of listening to music itself, in either a religious or non-religious context (Touma 1996, 153), and thus the endorsement of music in Islam is within itself problematic. The distinction between licit and illicit music in Islam is blurred. “There is no statement in the Holy Koran explicitly condemning music. Evidence in the Traditions of the Prophet Muhammed, hadith, clearly demonstrates that on occasion he listened to music with pleasure, however, these texts are open to many interpretations” (Neubauer and Doubleday 2005, 7). In other words, music might be condemned in one hadith and approved of in another (Al-Faruqi 1985, 8). Orthodox Islamic thought tends to regard all music with suspicion and only approves of those genres performed in a religious context. The vagueness does not free music from being a doubtful and questionable matter. However, this does provide a certain legitimacy for those argue the theological and moral benefits of music in certain contexts. As Al-Faruqi (1985) has argued, those explaining the moral permissibility of music in certain contexts are consequently obliged to construct elaborate taxonomies to differentiate those forms of music which have a claim to legitimacy (including Koranic cantillation, the call to prayer, pilgrimage songs, praise songs—methiye, naat, and tahmid—and songs celebrating the family, work, and war) and those intended solely for pleasure (zevk) which everyone agrees are entirely out of order (Stokes 1992, 209). Perhaps one of the most important taxonomies is best summarized by the teachings of the great theologian Ebu Hamid el Gazzali (1058–1111), religious reformer and mystic. He defines seven purposes for which music may be used and five in which its use is forbidden (Shiloah 1995, 43). The many forms of Muslim musical religious expression include considerable diversity, and are often strongly local in flavor. In other words, the Islamist interpretation of music essentially operates on a local or regional level. For example, the role of music in Sunni worship has been perceived in different ways throughout the history of Ottoman and modern

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Turkey, allowing wide scope for different understandings. While some commentators in Turkey allow for the recitation of the Koran with makam (modes) in a way which does not reduce the sacred text to the status of a secular song, some do not concur. Thus there is no singular Islamic position toward Islamic (pop) music, just as there is no common Islamic position on a variety of other issues, such as whether to allow a woman to be president, or whether to implement Islamic law. Islamic Popular Music and Muslim Identity The term Islamic popular music here is used to refer to the music associated with Islamic themes as opposed to mainstream popular musics. Since music is often a way of building and maintaining group identity, it creates a strong sense of unity among Muslims. For the Muslim, music has in recent times become the most important expressive culture in which identity is contested and negotiated. Islamic identity is not composed of a stable, closed corpus of representations, beliefs or symbols that is supposed to have an “affinity” with specific opinions, attitudes, or modes of behavior. The reason for this is simple: “religion is lived and embodied. It is not static and it is not only written down, but rather is mobile and anchoring, personal and collective, dynamic and staid. It is also, in many cases, commercialized and global” (Clark 2006, 476). It might be argued that music is a culturally expressed form that is a part of our commercialized and globalized experience of religion. Generally music is probably the most available and accessible of all art forms, but the music of religious rituals and observances is deeply connected to the particular cultural locations in which it originates. Of course, music and cultural products have always travelled from places of origin to new locations. In the current context of globalization, however, transportation technologies and economies of scale have made migration more common, and have also sped up the process of migration. People now have transnational experiences and identities (Erol 2011, 191). Like Islam itself, Islamic music provides an anchor for the self and thereby creates an “imagined community” that reinforces social ties among people who do not know each other but who share the same dreams and spiritual attachments. The repertory of Islamic pop artists symbolizes the identity of different generations enculturating in times and places of rapid change. There are marked differences between the Islamic popular music of a certain region and the contemporary Islamic music scenes of the world of Islam as a whole. Yet there are many similarities and overlappings between them, including a sharing of local facilities and resources and a crossover of musicians, audiences, sounds, and Islamic beliefs and practices. As Bayart (2005, 70) has argued, “the fluidity of the popular is demonstrated in situations in which social polarity and cultural fragmentation might seem to prevent it.” Islamic popular music in Turkey is a part of the glocal Islamic pop music scene. There are various ways in which Islamic pop could be described as making a “global or glocal Islamic pop music scene.” First, its production depends on musicians who have an Islamic lifestyle. They generally perform both their own compositions and a traditional religious music repertoire. Most of them are Islamist men in their twenties, thirties or forties. One of the most important traits of Islamist pop musicians differentiating them from other pop artists is that they have an encompassing strategy for change and a vision of an

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Islamic utopia. Knowing this is crucial for understanding their audiences. Their music largely appeals to people who choose Islam as a lifestyle, and they are mostly young, cosmopolitan, urban, educated, and relatively affluent. At this point, I would like to look at the ways in which the music scene has been defined, used, and reconceptualized. The Islamic Popular Music Scene as a Rhizome The concept of scene has long been used by musicians and music journalists to describe the clusters of musicians, promoters, and fans who form around particular music styles. Since the early 1990s, it has also begun to acquire currency as an academic model of analysis (Bennett 2004, 223). Thus, over the last two decades, a number of studies (Straw 1991; Shank 1994; Thornton 1996; Harris 2000; Bennett 2004) have appeared, focused largely on music scenes as specific contexts relating to the tensions between a hegemonic structure and subcultural resistance. In place of using terms like “subculture” and “community,” which imply music-related groups that are bounded and geographically rooted, some writers have preferred to use “scene, thereby emphasizing the dynamic, shifting, and globally interconnected nature of musical activity” (Cohen 1999, 239). In the introduction to their edited volume, Music Scenes, Bennett and Peterson (2004) use the trichotomy of “local”, “translocal”, and “virtual” scenes. A local scene is viewed as a focused social activity that takes place in a delimited space and during a specific period in which clusters of producers, musicians, and fans realize their common musical taste, collectively distinguishing themselves from others by using music and cultural signs often appropriated from elsewhere but recombined and developed in ways that come to represent the local scene (2004, 8). Translocal scenes are scattered geographical scenes based around a specific genre and lifestyle, while local scenes are geographically contingent. In other words “translocal scenes are networks of multiple local scenes focusing on the same music and associated activities, connected to each other across space” (Solomon 2009, 315). As Bennett and Peterson describe it, these scenes “interact with each other through the exchange of recordings, bands, fans, and fanzines” (2004, 8). Virtual scenes are communities connected via social media. In this internet age, say Bennett and Peterson, fanclubs dedicated to specific artists and subgenres have proliferated using the net as the medium of communication. Like the participants in translocal scenes, participants in virtual scenes are widely separated geographically, but unlike them, virtual scene participants around the world come together in a single scene-making conversation via the internet (Bennett and Peterson 2004, 10). Although Peterson and Bennett’s tripartite typology of music scenes seems to be a useful tool, Tom Solomon (2009) considers it disputable in some ways. For him, the first is that the typology conflates contrasting parameters: The spatial and the medium of communication. Further problems with the distinctions between the three types of scenes emerge when trying to relate Turkish hip-hop to them: It seems to have aspects of all three scenes identified by Peterson and Bennett (Solomon 2009, 316).

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Furthermore, the virtual scenes of Turkish hip-hop are in a complex relationship to the physical scene, as people meet not just in local concerts and parties, but also may travel to more distant places, including other countries. Another potential problem with Peterson and Bennett’s tripartite framework is that the apparent ontological primacy of local scenes in this typology seems to suggest that they must first develop independently of each other, and only later become connected in a translocal network. In many ways, Islamic popular music practices worldwide display characteristics of all three types of scenes. Like Solomon (2009, 317), in the case of Turkish Islamic pop, I want to suggest that it has been the constant movement of people which has made possible both individual local scenes and the networks connecting them. Then, how are we to theorize these complex and non-hierarchical relationships in the context of the glocality of Islamic pop? Following Solomon (2009) I suggest that glocal Islamic pop demonstrates complex networks of horizontal connections between local, translocal, and virtual Islamic popular music scenes. The concept of rhizome introduced by Deleuze and Guattari (1987) is apt for explaining these non-hierarchical connections since they address the metaphor to describe a framework that allows for multiple, non-hierarchical entry and exit points in data representation and interpretation. A rhizome is a root-like underground stem that generates roots from below and shoots from above, and can form part of a non-hierarchical assemblage of horizontal underground stems extending in every direction. In order to understand the metaphor of the rhizome, we should look at what it is a response to. A metaphorical rhizome is an alternative concept to traditional Western humanist thought based on the model of the tree considerably derived from Plato’s “tree of knowledge.” Sprouting from a single seed, producing a trunk and continuously branching out, and growing and spreading vertically, a tree can be traced to a single origin. In other words, traditional humanistic thought is inherently arborescent since it is believed that humankind can represent or reflect the world through language, science, and art. In contrast to this model of a tree, a rhizome is a bulb-like structure, different from roots and radicles. As such, a rhizome connects one seemingly arbitrary point with another and is therefore very hard to destroy. A rhizome has no center, spreading horizontally without beginning or end. Deleuze and Guattari offer six main principles to describe a rhizome: 1st and 2nd Principles of connection and heterogeneity: Any point of a rhizome can be connected to any other. This is very different from a tree or root, which plots a point and fixes an order. A rhizome ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and the arts, sciences, and social struggles. (Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 7) In other words, the rhizome forms connections between rhizomes that make up coalescences of rhizomes. In the principle of heterogeneity, the rhizome is neither hierarchical nor central. So no point need come before another, no specific point need be connected to another. In contrast to an arboreal structure based always on the genealogical, and opposed to binary oppositions, the rhizome is organized in a non-hierarchical and decentralized way.

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According to Deleuze and Guattari the third principle of the rhizome is multiplicity. It is only when the multiple is effectively treated as a substantive, “multiplicity”, that it ceases to have any relation to the One as subject or object, natural or spiritual reality, image and world . . . A multiplicity has neither subject nor object, only determinations, magnitudes, and dimensions. (1987, 9) In order to explain this principle, they gave an example of a puppet and its master. “Puppet strings, as a rhizome or multiplicity, are tied not to the supposed will of an artist or puppeteer but to a multiplicity of nerve fibers . . . [since] there are no points or positions in a rhizome, such as those found in a structure, tree, or root. There are only lines” (1987, 8). In this context, it might be argued that the actions of the puppet are not controlled by the will of the puppeteer. Since what is important are the lines between points, the puppeteer is just part of the multiplicity, even it is possible that they are a puppet of this multiplicity. The fourth principle of the rhizome listed by Deleuze and Guattari is that of asignifying rupture: “against the oversignifying breaks separating structures or cutting across a single structure. A rhizome may be broken, shattered at a given spot, but it will start up again on one of its old lines, or on new lines” (1987, 9). The fifth and sixth principles of the rhizome are those of “cartography” and “decalcomania.” Here, “a rhizome is not amenable to any structural or generative model. It is a stranger to any idea of genetic axis or deep structure. . . .” Contrary to arboreal logic being a logic of tracing and reproduction, the rhizome is not a tracing mechanism, but a map with multiple entry points. What distinguishes a map from a tracing is that it is entirely oriented towards an experimentation connected to the real (1987, 12). To sum up, Deleuze and Guattari in their book, A Thousand Plateaus, call a “plateau” any multiplicity connected to other multiplicities by superficial underground stems in such a way as to form or extend a rhizome (1987, 22). According to them “a rhizome has no beginning or end; it is always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo” (1987, 25). In the context of the glocality of the Islamic popular music scenes I analyze below, this could be interpreted as follows: As a rhizomatic phenomenon, glocal Islamic popular music is an open system, which brings into play very different sonic regimes. As such, it connects any local Islamic pop music practice to any other local or global practice. As a rhizomatic fact, Islamic popular music scenes are made of lines defined by a set of sounds and scene communities. The lines of glocal Islamic pop are lines of segmentarity and stratifications “as a production and construction of a map with multiple entries and exits” (Katja 2008, 189). Also, a rhizomatic map can always be detachable, connectable, reversible, and modifiable. Glocal Islamic pop as a map, or a rhizome, is a decentered, non-hierarchical system. As a multiplicity it is fluid. Its essence is not made up of local or global points but the lines connecting them. As above “a rhizome may be broken, shattered at a given spot, but it will start up again on one of its old lines, or on new lines.” In this context, an existing connection

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between local and global Islamic pop can become a starting point for a new one. Any local Islamic pop can thus be transformed into any other local or global Islamic pop practices and vice versa. Thinking Islamic popular music scenes as rhizomes is, of course, just a generic framework, and involves an affirmation. Here I would like to state that this theoretical orientation does not contradict the model that I should like to put forward. Because what constitutes the rhizomatic structure of Islamic popular music scenes is the glocality of Islamic pop scenes, and vice versa. Glocalization as Global and Local Nexuses As many theorists have maintained (Appadurai 1990, 1996, 2001; Beck 2000; Giddens 1990; Friedman 1994; Robertson 1992, 1997, 2005; Tomlinson 1999, 2003) globalization subsumes both economic expansion in terms of integration, interdependence, multilateralism, openness and interpenetration and political fragmentation which, conversely, involves disintegration, autarchy, unilateralism, separatism, and heterogeneity (Kempny 2000, 5). In a similar way, musical globalization is experienced and narrated as equally celebratory and contentious because everyone can hear both omnipresent signs of augmented and diminished musical diversity. “Tensions around the meaning of sonic heterogeneity and homogeneity precisely parallel other tensions that characterize global processes of separation and mixing, with an emphasis on stylistic genericization, hybridization, and revitalization” (Feld 2001, 190). Globalization metaphorically means that our world is continuously shrinking to become a “single place” (Robertson 1992, 6). Globalization is about a world of things in motion, [. . .] is a world of flows” (Appadurai 2001, 5). Appadurai uses a model of “scapes”— ethnoscapes, mediascapes, technoscapes, financescapes, and ideoscapes—to describe the fluid and changing experience of modernity at distinct historical moments in distinct global locations. He writes, “these landscapes thus are the building blocks of what [. . .] I would like to call imagined worlds, that is, the multiple worlds that are constituted by the historically situated imaginations of persons and groups spread around the globe” (1996, 33, emphasis in original). From this perspective, globalization is about the intricate network of connections that binds the human practices, experiences, and political, economic or environmental fates of humanity together. As Anthony Giddens defined, “globalization is the intensification of worldwide social relations which link distant localities in such a way that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away and vice versa” (Giddens 1990, 64). Robertson, one of the pioneers in the study of globalization, viewed globalization neither as a recent phenomenon nor as a consequence of modernization. It is in this context that Robertson conceptualized globalization in the twentieth century as “the interpenetration of the universalization of particularization and the particularization of universalism” (Robertson 1992, 100, emphasis in the original). This brings us to the relationship between the local and the global, which is one of the central issues in globalization studies. To describe the nature of this relationship, Robertson has coined the term “glocalization.” His basic claim is that globalization always takes place in some locality, while at the same time a locality, as a particular place, is itself produced in discourses on globalization.

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According to Robertson, it is the term “glocalization” which, in its original connotation, means “a global outlook tailored to local conditions,” that better sums up the inter-relations of the global and the local, although the main propositions of glocalaization are not too different from the main arguments of a sophisticated version of globalization. Thus since the mid-1990s, “glocalization has gradually come to occupy an increasingly central place in studies of globalization—so much so that we are, perhaps, on the verge of substituting glocalization for globalization or, more likely, using the two concepts in tandem” (Robertson 2005, 2). In this context the term “glocalization,” a portmanteau of globalization and localization, means the simultaneity or co-presence of both universalizing and particularizing tendencies (Robertson 1997, 218). To subscribe to the idea of “the local in itself” without contextualization or framework— makes no sense (Robertson 2005, 2). The local has been globalized; just as the global has been localized. Globalization is not an attempt to erase difference but to absorb and operate through local differences. To sum up, globalization is not just a question of growing interdependence, but also of opening up the cross-cultural production of meanings, selfimages, representations, modes of life typical of various groups and individuals. If one takes a long-term view of globalization, “locality” or “local” itself is a consequence of globalization. There are hardly any sites or cultures that can be seen as isolated or unconnected from global processes (Khondker 2004, 2). Consequently it is possible to say that globalization or glocalization should be seen as an interdependent process. Four Categories for Islamic Popular Music in the Glocal Context The movement of music from a periphery to the centre and from this centre again to other points of the periphery is of course not something new. It is just like a rhizome. While musicians are concerned with building up an audience-base for Islamic pop in a particular location, they also aspire to attract listeners from elsewhere. To see how this is done, it is necessary to shift the focus from the ways in which Islamic pop music is talked about to the ways in which it is performed. From the 1980s onward, it is possible to identify four concentric levels of Islamic pop music. In the course of my survey of Islamic popular music, I saw certain characteristics appear time and time again; these form the basis of the following categories. I am proposing that this model be used as a framework for understanding Islamic popular music practices all over the world; it is an outline which allows for the flowing between boundaries, not a fixed structure, and it is descriptive rather than prescriptive. It does not predict the particular dynamics of each local Islamic music practice, nor does it confine all Islamic musical practices in the world to these aspects. Instead, it is intended to open a new pathway to understanding the glocality of Islamic pop. Here are the basic categories: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Popularized Global Religious Melodies Popularized Local Religious Melodies Contemporary Global Islamic Popular Songs Contemporary Local Islamic Popular Songs

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Popularized global religious melodies which means globally popularized religious melodies are based on Islamic sources with a historical time depth which contributes to the formulation of a global Islamic popular repertoire and its stylistic features. In other words, the most important characteristic of popularized global religious melodies is based on the reliance on historical sources in formulating an Islamic repertoire. These songs, which are commonly sung in Arabic, represent a flow of sound in the sense of a soundscape from global to local Islamic music scenes. Both the older generation and younger Islamist musicians have a great respect for traditional repertory combined with “nasheeds” which means Islamic hymns and enjoy performing these songs. Thus the importance of historical recordings to Islamic popular music in Turkey, as in most parts of the world, cannot be overestimated. These songs have been regarded among Islamist musicians as “definitive” and as “representative” of Islamic music. This global repertoire stimulated the interest of urban Islamist groups who interpreted it as the legitimation of their identitiy. Therefore, it is important to see this repertory in relation to a common awareness of Muslim identity which combines local Islamist communities. Yusuf Islam, who is known as Cat Stevens, a “retired” pop singer, is perhaps one of the best-known “global” Islamist musicians. It might be argued that the song Talael Bedru Alleyna (the moon rose over us), performed and popularized by Yusuf Islam, was the first piece of Islamic popular music to achive mass popularity all over the world. Rather than addressing internal issues, Taleal Bedru Aleyna is typical in being directed at a dual audience, one local and the other global. To this extent, the use of Arabic makes sense. But there’s clearly a fine balance between appealing to an international audience and the possibility of alienating audiences who are interested in the song’s original language, for Yusuf Islam sang the second part of the song with its English lyrics. Using mixed lyrics, as will be seen later, has become a “habitus” for global Islamic pop singers. What makes this song particularly interesting is that it gives voice to a topic that is central to the collective memory of Muslims all over the world. Muslims believe that a hymn (lit. ilahi in Turkish) was sung on the occasion of the Prophet Muhammed coming to Medina from Mecca after his migration (hicret). According to this belief or imagination, the Muslims, including young girls and children, were waiting for the Prophet Muhammed, and as soon as they got the news that the Prophet was coming to that place they started to sing the hymn: Taleal Bedru Aleyna. This song represents a flow of sound from global to local Islamic music scenes. The second category in the Islamic music scene is the popularized local religious melodies. These songs are based on the indigenous religious musical heritage which is shaping a local popular repertoire. These melodies, which are often sung in Arabic, refer to a flow of sound in the sense of a soundscape from local to global Islamic music scenes. I would like to mention that mosque music appropriated many melodies, invoking the blessings of God and the Prophet Muhammed, from Sufi music through Sufi musicians. In Turkey, numerous art compositions have gained acceptance in the mosques through the influence of the Sufi orders. These religious melodies have been passed from generation to generation. In traditional terms, religious repertory embedded in devotional practices was not performed in secular settings. Today this situation has changed. These religiously specific and contextually-embedded musical texts, have become an omnipresent product through the production and dissemination of their recordings, and have gained popularity through live performances by prominent Islamist pop singers.

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For instance, Salavat, a song in praise of the Prophet Muhammed, became standardized in the same way as Taleal Bedru Aleyna by being directed at a local and global dual audience. Salavat was composed by Buhurizade Mustafa Itri in the early eighteenth century. He was a great composer in traditional Turkish art music and a Sufi musician. Today his salavat represents a flow of sound from the local to the global Islamic music scene. The third category of the scene is contemporary global popular songs. These are newlycreated Islamic pop songs by prominent global Islamic pop musicians. Their styles have a great variety of mainstream genres such as pop, rock, rap, and electronic music. One of the most important characteristics of some musicians is that their songs have a strong polyphonic texture. The lyrics are often in English even though some musicians sometimes also use Arabic and other local languages such as Turkish and Bosnian. Indeed, different songs by different Islamist musicians are recognizable musical versions of the same text or a similar story. That is not to say that there are no new texts. Lyrics or contents of text are a key component of the total set of Islamic popular music, indeed of all Islamic-influenced music. It goes without saying that lyrics have strong associations for Muslims who are familiar with the traditional texts. The most repetitive word in the songs is the name of God, Allah. There are also many basic epithets or metaphors recalling the essence of Allah. There is even a popular song based on the 99 names of Allah, Esmaul Husna, performed by Sami Yusuf. Two global Islamist musicians who have gone furthest down the global route are Yusuf Islam and Sami Yusuf. They have made a conscious decision to set their songs in English or in Arabic, or mixed English with Arabic. Yet they are not unique in using English lyrics. Among the musicians or groups associated with contemporary Islamic global pop are Native Deen, Zain Bhikha, Iman, Noor, and Nusret Kurtishi. The fourth category in the Islamic popular music scene is contemporary local Islamic popular songs. These are newly-created Islamic pop songs by local Islamist pop musicians. As far as Islamic popular music in Turkey is concerned, the genres are based on the mainstreams in Turkish popular music such as arabesk, pop, rock, rap, and so on. However, they often have a strong local, flavor of traditional Turkish art music. The lyrics are almost always in Turkish. Occupying as it does tension-fraught intersections between modernity and tradition, between local and global, and between religious and secular, Westernized popular music has been a highly contested domain in Turkey for a long time. But while commercial pop, in particular Turkish arabesk, has become less problematic in recent years, Islamic (pop) music has remained on the periphery until the early 1990s, partly because of its rejection by the conservative Islamist circles and partly through the choices of musicians themselves. The Islamic Popular Music Scene in Turkey It might be argued that the Islamic (pop) music scene in Turkey began to appear in the late 1980s. In fact there was a specific term for Islamic popular music in Turkey, Yeşil Pop (literally “green pop”) as green is considered the traditional color of Islam. Coined for the first time by an Islamist journalist in the late 1980s, the term was used to refer to Islamic popular music activity in Turkey in the early 1990s. In order to describe popular features of Islamic music, today musicians and audience prefer to use Islamic music or Islamic pop music instead of yeşil pop.

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It goes without saying that music is seldom stable in the context of social change. Migration had a profound effect upon patterns of musical production, patronage, and consumption in urban Muslim society. By the 1990s, Islamic pop music practices began to play an important role in the re-formulation and maintenance of the identity of the Muslim disaffected with aspects of contemporary life. The need of urban Muslims for a cultural representation has been answered through popularized religious songs. However, the people’s musical choices were not static in taste. In other words, Muslim interest in traditional music practices was not exclusive to popular music, or vice versa. In the 1990s, the revival of the Islamic musical tradition aroused the question of the balance between “preservation” of the authentic Islamic cultural heritage and innovation, including innovations that are intended to win over a wider audience for the Islamic musical tradition. As a result of this tension, today there are several categories of contemporary local Islamic music practices, including traditional and modern/popular forms. However, what will happen to this diversity in the future is uncertain. By the late 2000s, Islamic pop had evolved into a popular form which, despite retaining many musical figures from its roots, sounded increasingly Western. It might be argued that there has probably been a decrease in the diversity of performance styles, at the same time that there has been an increase in the variety of musical experiments and forms that young Islamist pop musicians perform. In the recorded music of the musicians, the cosmopolitan musical aesthetics of popular music may be so internalized that they are reproduced in performance despite the best intentions of musicians to remain faithful to their sources. In these cases it is necessary not to confuse the ideology of authentic Islamic music with its practice because the two differ greatly. Some young Islamist pop musicians, such as Umutzen, Abdurrahman Önül, Aykut Kuşkaya, Mesut Kurtiş, and some bands such as Grup Yeniçağ and Grup Genç use musical instruments of traditional Turkish art music such as the ney, ud, and kanun with electric instruments, strong percussion, and sometimes string orchestras in their albums, so that songs which might belong to the mainstream of Turkish popular music styles such as arabesk, pop and rock, conform closely to the popular music aesthetic. It might be argued that there is relative harmony between the young Islamist pop musicians who resist being identified with a single style and the urban Muslim audience whose expectations are shaped by popular music styles. Conclusion Islamic music traditions have their own distinctive characteristics, conventions, and identities. The local Islamic pop music scene, however, does not exist in isolation but has always reflected non-local musical influences. The case of Turkey points to connections between Islamic pop scenes in different places and suggests that local Islamic pop scenes need to be understood in relation to broader transnational processes, and that they draw our attention to the existence of a translocal or transnational Islamic pop scenes. Whether one calls it a global or glocal network, a translocal scene or a transnational community of affect, Islamic popular music scenes imply different paths that make up a rhizomatic structure of Islamic identity.

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One of the consequences of globalization is that it opens up doubts about the originality and authenticity of cultures (Khondker 2004, 2). It has taken only 100 years for sound recording technologies to amplify sonic exchange to a point that overwhelms prior and contiguous histories of travel, migration, contact, colonization, diaspora, and dispersial. It is therefore the recorded form, as it circulates commercially, that defines the authenticity of music globalization (Feld 2001, 190). The authenticity of Islamic music was based on the hallowed distinctions between traditional Turkish art music and “others.” This is no longer the case. Islamist pop musicians adapt pre-existing popular styles to the tastes and demands of new urban Muslims. The new sounds designed by Islamist pop musicians provide the means by which ruralurban migrants can transform themselves from a traditional Islamic identity to a modern/ urban Islamic identity. It is clear that the attempts to create a cohesive sense of identity through Islamic popular music have succeeded. Bibliography Al-Faruqi, Lois Ibsen. 1985. “Music, Musician, and Muslim Law.” Asian Music 17 (1): 3–36. Appadurai, Arjun. 1990. “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy.” Theory, Culture and Society 7: 295–310. ——. 1996. Modernity at Large. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. ——. 2001. “Grassroots Globalization and the Research Imagination.” In Globalization, edited by Arjun Appadurai, 1–21. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Bayart, J. François. 2005. The Illusion of Cultural Identity. Translated by Steven Rendall, London: Hurts & Company. Beck, Ulrich. 2000. What is Globalization? Cambridge: Polity Press. Bennett, Andy. 2004. “Consolidating the Music Scene Perspective.” Poetics 32 (3–4): 223–234. Bennett, Andy, and Richard A. Peterson, eds. 2004. Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press. Clark, Lynn Schofield. 2006. “Introduction to a Forum on Religion, Popular Music, and Globalization.” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 45 (4): 475–9. Cohen, Sara. 1999. “Scene.” In Key Terms in Popular Music and Popular Culture, edited by Tom Swiss and Bruce Horner, 239–255. Oxford: Blackwell Pub. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guatari. 1987. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by B. Massumi. London: Athlone Press. Erol, Ayhan. 2011. “Understanding Diversity of Islamic Identity in Turkey Through Popular Music: Global/Local Nexus.” Social Compass 58 (2): 187–202. Feld, Steven. 2001. “A Sweet Lullaby for World Music.” In Globalization, edited by Arjun Appadurai, 189–219. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Friedman, Jonathan. 1994. Cultural Identity and Global Process. London: Sage. Giddens, Anthony. 1990. The Consequences of Modernity. Stanford, CA: SU Press. Harris, Keith. 2000. “Roots: Relationship between the global and the local within the Extreme Metal Scene.” Popular Music 19 (1): 13–30. Katja, Cergolj Edwards. 2008. “A Rhizome as a Map af a Rupture of the Cartesian Dualism.” Annales. Series historia et sociologia 18 (1): 185–192. Kempny, Marian. 2000. “Globalization of Democracy and Conditions for Democratic Community in the Glocalized World,” Seminar on Cultures of Democracy and Democratization, Accessed May 2014. www.rci.rutgers.edu/ ~culdemsm/Kempny%20Paper.htm. Khondker, Habibul. 2004. “Glocalization as Globalization: Evolution of a Sociological Concept.” Bangladesh e-Journal of Sociology 1 (2): 1–9. Neubauer, Eckhard, and Veronica Doubleday. 2005. “Islamic Religious Music.” In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, Accessed June 2014. www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/52787. Robertson, Roland. 1992. Globalization: Social Theory and Global Culture. London: Sage. ——. 1997. “Comments on the Global Triad and Glocalization.” In Globalization and Indigenous Culture, edited by Inoue Nobutaka, 217–225. Tokyo: Kokugakuin University. ——. 2005. “The Conceptual Promise of Glocalization: Commonality and Diversity.” Art-e-Factno4, Accessed May 2014. http://artefact.mi2.hr/_a04/lang_en/theory_robertson_en.htm.

118 • Ayhan Erol Shank, Barry. 1994. Dissonant Identities: The rock ’n’ roll Scene in Austin, Texas. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. Shiloah, Amnon. 1995. Music in the World of Islam. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Solomon, Tom. 2009. “Berlin Frankfurt Istanbul: Turkish Hip-hop in Motion.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 12 (3): 305–327. Stokes, Martin. 1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Straw, Will. 1991. “Systems of Articulation, Logics of Change: Scenes and Communities in Popular Music.” Cultural Studies 5 (3): 368–388. Thornton, Sarah. 1996. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. Tomlinson, John. 1999. Globalization and Culture. Cambridge: Polity Press. ——. 2003. “Globalization and Cultural Identity.” In The Global Transformations Reader: An Introduction to the Globalization Debate, edited by David Held and Anthony McGrew, 269–277. Cambridge: Polity Press. Touma, Habib Hassan. 1996. The Music of the Arabs. Translated by Laurie Schwartz. Portland, OR: Amadeus Press.

Discography Abdurrahman Önül. Medine Yolları [Roads to Medine]. Ajans Yıldırım, 2013, compact disc. Grup Genç. Sözü Var [Have a Word]. Adım Prodüksiyon, 2010, compact disc. Grup Yeniçağ. Sebep [The Reason]. Marmara Müzik, 2004, compact disc. Umutzen. Sahte Dünya [Fake World] Şahin Özer Müzik, 2008, compact disc.

8 Politics of World Music The Case of Sufi Music in Turkey Koray Değirmenci

The term “world music” first emerged in academic circles in the early 1960s, serving as a “less cumbersome alternative to [the term] ethnomusicology” in distinguishing it from West-European art music (Feld 2000, 146–147). As such, world music’s application has been primarily associated with a scholarly line of thought eschewing the typical non-Western music labels of primitive, oriental, or folk (Slobin 1993, 4). While the term was initially born of academics’ desire to create a theoretical sub-field within music studies, its definition has more recently come to inform the commercial meaning of the term as well. In fact, eleven independent record labels adopted a world music category in 1987 to denote styles that had been previously considered international pop, i.e., non-Western music (Mitchell 1996, 53). The term has since become an umbrella category comprising a wide variety of styles, including but not limited to new age, ambient, tribal, trance; and the more inclusive terms of ethnic, ethnopop, and international. The term’s increasingly widespread application has inspired significant academic interest. Interestingly, a standard definition of world music remains elusive because of inconsistencies in music-industry genres combined with the term’s various contextual meanings. In an effort to provide a clear explanation, however, Steven Feld has suggested that world music “has come to refer to any commercially-available music of non-Western origin and circulation as well as to all musics of dominated ethnic minorities within the Western world; music of the world to be sold around the world” (1994, 266). While it would be impossible to name every musical style that could potentially fall under world music, the term currently refers to a general commercial category that includes traditional music of indigenous groups or, more specifically, the “traditional” music of any particular place (including those in the West) and the fusion of these traditions (most often Eastern and Western). Although helpful, this definition is also limiting in that it fails to highlight non-Western musical styles that have distinguished many popular world music releases. If we were to broaden the definition to include these, one might describe world music as any genre outside of (Western) classical music traditions and mainstream Western pop; that is, musical styles native to non-English-speaking territories and those outside Western Europe. This chapter will focus more specifically on Sufi music, especially in regarding Mercan Dede, one of the most prominent representatives of Sufi music as a form of world music.

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In particular, I aim to 1) analyze how the global discourse of Sufi music as world music— e.g., in terms of factors including authenticity, spirituality, and sincerity—is indigenized within the local; and 2) delineate the discursive topography of Sufi music as world music through the processes of compilation, dislocation, and appropriation of global and local discourses within the local itself. These concepts will be explained in further detail shortly. First, however, I will provide a brief contextual overview to situate this topic historically. A Global World Music Discourse? From an academic viewpoint, efforts in the 1990s to examine world music led to the question of whether or not the phenomenon can be explored systemically (i.e., in relation to current global contexts) or if it should instead focus on specific case analyses. Veit Erlmann and Mark Slobin, respected experts whose world music research first paved the way for subsequent critical exploration, capture these perspectives well. Erlmann (1994, 166) references Fredric Jameson’s work regarding the production of difference (Jameson 1991) in likening the emergence of world music to the “aesthetic production of difference,” a concept informed by two particular aspects of global culture: “commodity production and the way in which differentiation is written into the very structural logic of late capitalism.”1 To put it another way, commodity production has married differentiation and homogenization that “now comfortably reside as members of the same family” (Erlmann, 1996, 473). Slobin (1992, 5), on the other hand, argues against “a hidden agency which controls the flow of culture in a global world.”2 In emphasizing instead the malleable boundaries that follow from deterritorialization in today’s globalized world, Slobin turns his attention to local project-analysis in which listeners and musicians alike create meaning, and form micromusical scenes, in global contexts. Whereas Slobin objects to the framing of world music as a direct representation of an overarching global system that overlooks local specificities, Erlmann contends that case analysis overemphasizes the local as a place of resistance in light of its relative autonomy. These distinct discourses have informed much of the existing world music literature. On a related note, Feld (2000) proposes that world music perspectives can generally be considered either anxious or celebratory narratives. The earliest versions of the former were largely colored by cultural imperialism3: They investigated how indigenous and non-Western music had been exploited, packaged, and appropriated in the name of world music. In this vein, Tony Mitchell (1996, 1) explains that proponents of cultural imperialism emphasize Anglo-American industrial trade-routes as a source of cultural imperialism, which “displace and appropriate authentic representations of local and indigenous music into packaged commercial products commodified for ethnically indeterminate, but predominantly Anglocentric and Eurocentric, markets.” Theoretically, however, many scholars have questioned cultural imperialism’s cursory explanation of the intricacies of the global system (i.e., power struggles and cultural evolution). Their skepticism is warranted given the perspective’s black-and-white representation of oppositions: Commodified and global versus authentic and local. Mitchell (ibid, 51) contends that the relationship between the so-called center and periphery is more nuanced, “always mediated by complex interplays of intercultural cross-fertilizations.” Martin Stokes (2012,

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109) echoes this perspective, suggesting that cultural imperialism “assumes a simple causal linkage between technologies of sound production, musical styles . . . and a variety of political and aesthetic effects” although these associations are “complex and many-stranded.” Similarly, as Arjun Appadurai (1996) states, global forms, practices, and discourses are somehow indigenized in the “local,” a process that cannot be reduced to either/or propositions such as local/global or center/periphery. Others have proposed more refined anxious narratives that speak to the power differential in world music’s production and consumption. For example, academics have examined the ways in which the “difference” and musical other have been represented, and fetishized or commodified, in world music without relying on unidimensional explanations.4 To that end, a number of theoretical overviews and case studies have explored Western control of non-Western music production in regards to selection, categorization, marketing, and distribution.5 Timothy Taylor (1997, 14), for instance, explains that commercial practices including world music production illustrate “the limitless ways capitalism constructs centers and margins” and “how the margins, no matter how diverse, are nonetheless undifferentiated almost beyond recognition.” These practices represent the link between a top-down approach that considers world music a transfiguration of an overarching global system and the notion of unique world musics in particular localities. In contrast, celebratory narratives valorize the hybridity of world music as a challenge to the hegemony of Western music traditions. Feld (2000, 152) argues that these narratives fail to pay due diligence to the music industry’s inequitable financial and cultural relations by analogizing resistance and hybridity and applying the term global, rather than international, “as a positive valence term for modern practices and institutions.” Feld (ibid, 153–154) further suggests that the anxious and celebratory positions have converged gradually to render world music a “tensely modern category” in which musical plurality is considered a “dialectical necessity in a world where world music circulation is increasingly dominated by predictable musical commodities.” Simon Frith (2000, 312), on the other hand, contends that hybridity represents “the new authenticity” given its validation within international academic discourses and renewed emphasis on distinct world music styles found in different localities. These narratives are necessarily complex. Take, for example, Martin Stokes’s (1999, 122) astute observation that contemporary musical experience follows from the tension between globalized media cultures and creative “positioning” in response to globalization processes. Politics of world music therefore reflect local mechanisms within the development of world music discourses in local spaces. Indeed, the key theoretical concern in my book, in which I explore Turkey’s various traditional or “ethnic” music genres in detail (namely gypsy, Sufi and folk) as they are incorporated into the global discourses of world music, involved the political implications of placing the concept of a global world music discourse at the center of this analysis (Değirmenci 2013). The discussion of a global world music discourse, or collection thereof, appears to necessitate an emphasis on globalization’s (or global capitalism’s) overarching attributes. However, the complex and multifaceted ways in which global world music discourses are appropriated locally situate these discourses on a continuum: At one end, there are the monolithic and highly hegemonic discourses of world music that are nearly identical to

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global discourses; and at the other, the discourses that seem entirely independent of global discourses and instead appear to be based solely on the localities from which they originate. Complicating this issue further is the fact that the multiple instances of appropriation in which the incorporation of “local music” informs world music discourses vary across and within different genres. Clearly, a complete discussion of such complex appropriation processes is beyond the scope of this chapter but is addressed at great length in my book. Overall, though, globalization establishes points of convergence between local and global cultural forms, the nature of which can no longer be explicated via one-way determination based on a presumed binary between the local and the global. That is, the elements thought to belong to either the center/periphery or the global/local are constantly contested, reshaped, and appropriated. Thus, the complicated nature of transnational flow renders it increasingly difficult to define such distinct terrains and assign a determinative role exclusively to the abstract and fictional spaces of the global. The Incorporation of Sufi Themes into World Music Spirituality has long colored world music discourse, to the point that albums later considered world music were at first called New Age despite the term’s association with (superficial) spirituality and religion. Even today, a clear delineation between the two genres is hard to come by because they both refer, in some sense, to spirituality. As a concept, however, New Age denotes a belief system that aims to transform society and its individuals “through mystical union with a dynamic cosmos” with a focus on inner consciousness, personal development, and experience (Newport 1998, 1). In contrast, the notion of spirituality as it relates to world music emphasizes uniquely personal, rather than social, transformation. Moreover, world music’s discursive positioning of the other is unlike New-Age spirituality in its definitiveness. Taylor (1997, 24) remarks that “listeners’ demands for authentic spirituality apply to Others, whose perceived enigmatic qualities are often interpreted as spiritual.” Thus, the sounds represent spirituality through a tangible authenticity, thereby evoking a purportedly more real spirituality. Sufi music’s integration into world music has been entrenched in discursive constructions of spirituality similar to other traditional forms of music deemed to be sacred. Arkın Ilıcalı, otherwise known as Mercan Dede, is one of the best-known artists from Turkey in international world music. His fame is largely a result of a handful of successful albums including Su (Water) and 800, each of which topped the World Music Charts in Europe for two months, and Nefes (Breath), which captured the number-two spot on the WMCE’s list of the top 150 albums of 2006.6 It should be noted, however, that Mercan Dede’s contributions to the current analysis are not only derived from his international success. Rather, much of his popularity is due to the skill with which he ties together Mevlevi philosophy and music. Indeed, he has effectively introduced the Mevlevi concept into world music and Western world music markets, including those in the U.S. and Canada (where he lives). Previously, Mevlevi music had received limited attention in the West and only from fringe audiences. “A Sufi musician,” “a Sufi traveler,” “a genuine Sufi adherent,” “one of Turkey’s legendary dervishes,” “digital dervish,” “a dervish of the modern world,” and “trance DJ”—Mercan Dede has

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received these and other accolades from international journalists as a testament to his talent. Dede’s music has also been described more colloquially as: “Eastern-inflected dance fusion,” “Whirling dervish sounds,” “sufi-electronica,” “sufitronica,” and so on. A signature attribute of Dede’s performances and recordings is his careful attention to combining trademark Mevlevi ideas and images with an aesthetic that avoids the notion of ethnomusicological or “real” authenticity entirely and eschews the exotic sounds that would alienate a Western audience. His approach to authenticity mirrors this deliberateness; indeed, he denies its existence by refusing to attribute authenticity to the ney and the popular argument that Mevlevi music and associated practices are reflective of a particular authentic “tradition”: No musical concept and no musical instrument pops up like mushrooms. There has always been an evolution . . . For example, what is sema?7 What is traditional sema? . . . What they call authentic—I mean, this form of sema as we know it today—is a deviation in itself. Mevlana had never practiced such a thing. What is being called authentic was made up hundreds of years after the Mevlana period. We have prepared skirts, composed music and then created some other structures for the performance of these forms . . . Mevlana says that anything that has a beginning and an end will eventually cease to exist. Look at this saying, which itself refuses altogether our definitions of classical and authentic. (personal communication, 12.28.2007) Similarly, Dede’s perspective on authenticity has been informed by a kind of anti-authenticity rather than inauthenticity, wherein authenticity ceases to apply as a concept. The music journalist, Charlie Gillett, projected a destiny for popular music that appears inevitable in Mercan Dede’s case: Anything that popular music “develops or changes has to be antiauthentic. How could it be otherwise?” (quoted in Chaney 2002, 197). Popular music therefore naturally lacks genuineness or authenticity, due to its seeming absence of a “grand tradition.” Yet in Mevlevi music, authenticity serves clearly as a “discursive trope,” to borrow Taylor’s (1997, 22) term, that renders anti-authenticity the only alternative discursive route. Tasavvuf or Mevlevi music is inherently steeped in authenticity; thus, it can only be disregarded if we deny authenticity’s existence in the first place. Unlike inauthenticity, which is clearly related to its roots, it is difficult to erase authenticity in the case of Mevlevi practices because the genre so readily evokes sacredness and authenticity by its nature. By extension, it is similarly challenging to see how an aesthetic of anti-authenticity in music can be substantiated within a discourse saturated by Mevlevi images and concepts, which are direct representations of authenticity. In the case of Mercan Dede, it is futile to attempt to give weight to the thematic appropriation of Mevlevi tradition and aesthetics. Rather than focusing on specific aspects of traditional Mevlevi music that reflect authenticity (e.g., taksim8 or Qur’anic verses that are part of a conventional Mevlevi ritual, Ayin-i Şerif), he amalgamates a variety of musical traditions. This purposeful integration, however, continues beyond characteristic sounds to include instruments as well. Tracks on the 800 album incorporate eclectic mixing of instruments, like the bağlama and santur, in songs such as “Güneş doğudan doğar” (The

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Sun Rises in the East); or the blending of ney and trombone in “Tutsak” (Captive); or long bağlama solos that call to mind the sitar improvisations of Indian ragas. These examples and others are reflective of Dede’s eye toward juxtaposition to create hybrid sounds—not only the marriage of two distinct styles, but the crafting of a new and melded entity. This type of postmodern audio collage is similar for him in many ways to Mevlevi doctrines and philosophy: I do not superimpose, say, an Indian instrument on some other instruments to create something eccentric. I do think that all those instruments exhibit unity in their expression of meaning in their own realms. Thus, they do not seem campy when combined to me. They don’t constitute a collage that is simply a mish-mash. They are combined in a way so as not to give any hint of being stitched, like being woven by a skillful tailor. That way they coexist in their essence, in their origin . . . This is the idea of tevhid [unity or oneness in Islamic philosophy]. (personal communication, 12.28.2007) Dede’s perspective is also indicative of supersession in his emphasis on the interchangeability of musical styles or instruments irrespective of their cultural foundation. Such juxtaposition is considered a fundamental principle of tasavvuf (Sufism), or Dede’s notion of tevhid. While this concept highlights the oneness of God, it simultaneously references “unification with God” (ma’rifa) that follows the “annihilation of self within the divine being” (fana). In other words, people and music are not so different: Just as instruments weave a tale in their own distinct idioms, individuals can communicate shared meaning in their own words. Dede’s tevhid thus reflects the well-worn discourse of universality (and multiculturality) while also praising cultural difference in the light of shared human goals. This is not to say, however, that Sufism is embedded in Mercan Dede’s music through thematic dislocations alone. Especially in his earlier albums, such as Journeys of a Dervish (1999), we hear a variety of styles derived from traditional Sufi practices: Hymns, long ney taksims, zikr9 as an ostinato pattern, and other forms outside conventional music. Consider, for instance, the song “Healing Prayers,” in which zikr was used as an ostinato for a Celtic-inspired song superimposed over a background ney improvisation. The resultant track sounds as though each part is playing on a distinct channel, unlike his later pieces in which the respective sounds are blended seamlessly. Although zikr appears often in Dede’s work as an ostinato pattern, the other elements have evolved into samples or sounds shorn from their own musical contexts. The transformation of musical elements from a specific melodic form to an insular sound is most strikingly exemplified in the ney. It can be heard frequently in Dede’s early pieces within a clear melody (i.e., in long ney taksims) but laterly comes to approximate a sample apart from rare instances where it appears as an accompaniment or a solo instrument.10 In the album 800, certain instruments such as the clarinet, santur, kemençe, and bağlama carry the primary melody rather than the ney. Instead, it appears from time to time as a sample in every sense of the word. Thus, the evocation of Sufism and construction of spirituality through music has become more implicit in Dede’s subsequent works via embodiments of Mevlevi thought within the aesthetics of the musical arrangements rather than via the direct appropriation of a particular

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musical corpus representing authentic Mevlevi music. This type of musical aesthetic, along with its signature elements of oneness, unity, and substitutability, appear rooted in Dede’s foundation of electronic music and sampling. Specifically, his remarks about the significance of sound over melody encapsulates how his aesthetic understanding reflects Sufism through his musical arrangements. He states, “What makes sound superior to music” is its power to be “multilayered, . . . [able] to be interpreted in diverse ways.” The strongest homage to Mevlevi philosophy comes in Dede’s 800 album, the title of which is intended to honor Mevlana Rumi’s 800th birthday. An envelope with a letter to Mevlana is included in the album’s booklet. The sender, “Lame Ant,” addressed “Ya Hazreti Mevlana” as the recipient. The envelope’s stamp gives its mailing place as the imaginary land of “Mercanistan” (the land of Mercan). The name “Lame Ant” refers to the letter’s inspiration: Mevlana as a lame ant on the path of Love in his Masnavi. That is, Mercan Dede makes an analogy between himself and the Lame Ant, insinuating that he, too, has undertaken a difficult journey in pursuit of elusive Love or Truth. He even addresses Mevlana directly, citing his longing for him. The letter is signed by Arkın, more precisely “The Likeness of ark’ın.” The booklet’s commentary on the track, “Mercanistan,” makes the imaginary land even more obscure: “The song is dedicated to those who have become citizens of the heartland from its founding to the present. Over time our family has multiplied to reach every corner of the earth. . . .” The note continues by saying that the people, referred to as “citizens” of Mercanistan, “share the same sounds and vocabulary”; and “together we are at home.” While the letter’s simplicity and naivety are intended to reinforce Mercan Dede’s “sincerity” in his spiritual journey in pursuit of Love or Truth, the notion of the imaginary Mercanistan invokes a Sufi order in which shared goals and “vocabularies” bring devotees together. This imaginary land is simply named—in keeping with the style of the letter—thereby displaying sincerity in a poetic way. These seemingly facile touches stand in contrast to Sufi philosophy’s complexity to help make its ideas accessible to a public who may be otherwise unfamiliar with it. This sense of sincerity rests at the center of the spirituality represented in Mercan Dede’s music. It is present through the texts and visual art of each of his projects. Closely tied to a discourse of sincerity is the notion that Dede’s musicreflects his personal spiritual evolution. Together, they represent the Sufi or Mevlevi philosophy by way of an easily-understandable artistic discourse. Aside from 800’s lyrics and textual elements, the album’s cover art is also part of the evocation of Mevlevi themes and a specific spiritual point of view. The cover art is assembled, much like the sounds of the album, in a way which hybridizes the images so that they are hardly recognizable. They are multilayered, a mishmash of symbols from disparate contexts. Dede thus attempts to make these images his own just as he does with sounds. For instance, he refers to the whirling dervishes of the album cover not by their identities, but as “creatures.”11 Some of their skirts are red, and the figure most like a conventional dervish has no face. The creatures also have wings and are surrounded by what appear to be scattered moths, a reference to the traditional Sufi metaphor of the moth and the flame. The moth’s desire for light and flame, and its resultant destruction, is used as an analogy to the Sufi devotee on the spiritual path who desires annihilation in the Divine Being or

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Truth.12 The whirling moths and dervishes are also evocative. Some of the imagery is so abstract that one can hardly discern what it is intended to represent. The textual discourse that mirrors Mevlevi tradition metaphorically is thus combined with a visual discourse that crafts abstract, unique images by way of postmodern collage. All in all, the resulting artwork is unlike the stereotypical touristic Mevlevi images that adorn Sufi-music albums aimed at an international audience. The metaphor of wings in particular appears often in this album. The whirling dervishes have wings, like the images of sound waves that have been transformed into wings. Dede cites the image of sound waves as a conceptual statement for the album although this is not stated in the artwork. The wings metaphor is further referred to in the album’s fourth track, “Kanatlar kitabı” (Book of Wings). Dede’s comments on the meaning of music explain the wings’ prevalence: When I hear music, it makes me feel like I am flying from this world–a matrix; I feel that I exist and that I am living. This is music, and I believe it is a very important realm. That feeling is what I can express as the feeling of flying. It means ascending from the materiality of this world. That is why there are flying creatures in this album. There are the wings and the sound waves. (personal communication, 12.28.2007) The wings metaphor, and the idea that music evokes the feeling of flying (or “ascending from the materiality of this world,” as Dede puts it), suggests a direct relationship between the notion of vecd13 in Sufi philosophy and that of trance in electronic music (hypnotic beats). This sentiment is similar to that of his Nefes album, where the theme of sırlama (glazing) is elusive but omnipresent. He refers to the glazing process (sırlama) in the making of ceramics; then mentions the notion of a secret (sır), which is a play on words. Glazing was done using natural means in Ottoman ceramic-art unlike today’s methods where chemical glazesare used. In earlier times, only the masters knew the prescribed way to create particular ceramic colors and those used for glazing were secret. Moreover, when natural glazes were used, you could never be sure what the final color would be after baking. Dede implicitly refers to these aspects of the tradition of ceramic art. The listener is free to discern meanings (or truths) that resonate personally. The sense of mystery Dede keeps throughout his work is striking in how it provokes curiosity via what may be regarded as occult elements. A Final Reflection The incorporation of spiritual philosophy and sacred music in world music necessitates the thematic adaptation and transformation of local and “authentic” musical forms to appeal to a non-local audience’s taste. This is especially true for styles such as Sufi music that are tied to spiritual notions affiliated with specific religious traditions. Here, thematic assimilation is more complex in that concepts that would seem foreign to audiences unfamiliar with the tradition need to be effectively translated to beget familiarity.

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Themes and discursive elements with which international (often Western) audiences are already comfortable serve as doorways for this integration. The transformative process is not without its challenges, however, especially in the sense that the musical forms should be neither too familiar (i.e. essentially Western and therefore uninteresting) nor too exotic (thereby threatening incomprehensibility). Similarly, New Age philosophy and spirituality may be important for discourses of spirituality in world music, perhaps related to Christian mythical elements in New Age spirituality. Distinctive discursive elements of New Age spirituality (such as an individual spiritual journey, emphasis on personal transformation, or the enigma of oneself as a to-be-discovered entity) render conventionally sacred musical forms spiritual. Turkish Sufi music as espoused by Mercan Dede brings together ancient sacred teachings with New Age spirituality exceptionally well in the way it has been translated into forms which a wider audience can appreciate instead of only evoking Islamic tradition. Thematic adaptation is further helped by a cosmological narrative that emphasizes universal motifs. The resulting spiritual construction is based on humanism and cosmopolitism, both of which represent contextually dependent, ethereal components of a general discourse. That is, familiar ideas can be discursively dislocated to evoke (or even mirror) a central theme in Sufism: The unity or oneness of humanity and the universe. The notion of vecd, for example, plays a central role in the symbolic universe of Sufi orders and is simultaneously a hybrid version of trance without any overt association with a particular quality of sacredness. The primary purpose and meaning of trance, irrespective of one’s notion of spirituality, is to transcend everyday material needs. Furthermore, in Sufi philosophy, the evocations, sounds, and musical instruments exist in mystical intimacy with the participants in which the sounds are connected with their individual selves and spiritual journeys instead of creating distance to the participants which could be the case with overly exotic sounds. The notion of universality is essential to this process because the meaning of new forms of music should not depend on the subjectivity of the culture in which they are created; rather, they should be an expression of the participant’s personal journey and experience. Mercan Dede’s music is a prime example of what can happen when this process is successful. For him, Sufi music has been incorporated seamlessly into world music with the support of spiritual discourses reminiscent of what may be termed postmodern spirituality. While the idea is most often associated with a living cosmology in discourses in which it appears, it also distinguishes between spirituality and religiosity. For example, Matthew Fox (1990, 19–20) references a move from “the Quest for the Historical Jesus to the Quest for the Cosmic Christ” in theological terms. Although Fox explains this in relation to Christianity, I would suggest that the inclusion of cosmology into discourses of spirituality supports a wider distinction between spirituality and religiosity. As Roland Benedikter argues, postmodern spirituality relies largely on the search for a “new essentialism.”14 It emphasizes individualistic experience and the desire for transcendence without the ethical or moral obligations of any specific religion. Thus, postmodern spirituality reflects secular spirituality, or the notion of being spiritual without being necessarily religious. The Mevlevi images, combined with seemingly universal ancient

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cosmologies, are similarly associated with notions of a personal spiritual journey and the significance of an individual path. I would argue that such associations, especially as they exist within the discourses of universalism and cosmopolitanism, result in a type of postmodern spirituality that is indeed at least superficially free from religiosity. However, the resultant spirituality in its new form is a tamed iteration at best. Its underlying foundation and themes are decontextualized (and discursively dislocated) and thereby detached from religious connotations. These general and vague notions of spirituality, cosmopolitanism, humanism, and universality are congruent with Sufi themes of unity and oneness. Accordingly, even though the discursive compilation of these elements may appear at first unrelated or conflictual, their integration is central to more than just discursive dislocation. Moreover, Mevlevi themes and the image of Mevlana are well suited to this aim because their popular iteration encourages these compilations and dislocations and the decontextualization that ultimately creates a tamed spirituality. Given that the contemporary world may be characterized by suspicion or outright hostility towards fundamentalist Islam, the increasing diffusion of spirituality (and music) reflective of traditional Islamic ideals can only be explained by the appeal of secular spirituality. The effects of globalization have created blurred lines between the local and the global, leading not only to cultural appropriation but also to adaptation that renders artifacts (in this case, music) agreeable to a wider public. The natural evolution of these forms creates a dynamic ebb and flow between exoticism and familiarity; as such, world music cannot be a static entity but one that will continue to influence, and be influenced by, the nuances of global and local landscapes vis-à-vis cultural discourse, localized belief systems, and spirituality as well as other considerations. Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

See also Erlmann (1993; 1999) See also Slobin (1993). For a survey of cultural imperialism, see Garofalo (1993). For a succinct overview of the cultural imperialism debate in world music literature, see Goodwin and Gore (1995). For examples, see Erlmann (1994; 1999); Feld (1988; 1994; 1996); Guilbault (1997). For an example see Keil and Feld (1994). The album 800 topped the WMCE list in April and May 2008. The album Su stayed at the top through November and December 2004. However, Mercan Dede’s latest album Dünya (Earth) released in 2013 has not attained the same measure of commercial success. Sama (sema in Turkish) literally means audition or listening in Arabic. Thus, in a way, listening to the recitation of the Qur’an can be called sama as well. Here it denotes worship practices involving voices and/or sounds and sometimes physical movements. Taksim is an Anatolian instrumental genre, consisting of an improvised theme and several sections. It may be performed alone or as introduction to a vocal section. Zikr (often translated as invocation, remembrance, or sometimes recollection) exists in one form or another in every Sufi order, which marks its importance as an indispensable element of Sufi rituals and practices. A zikr consists of the repetition of the names of Allah, or some derivatives of those names or their syllables, along with sacred formulas such as Allah Hu (He is God) or Hayy Hu (He is the Living one). In this context, the terms “sample” or “sound” do not refer to their literal meanings. Instead, I would like to emphasize their roles in evoking a “Sufi sound.” That said, in Dede’s earlier works unlike his later ones, the musical reference to Sufism depends primarily on the indistinguishable and prevailing existence of these motifs. The album cover and its other visual materials can be found at http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs23/f/2007/312/d/3/ Mercan_Dede___800_by_onur9k.jpg, accessed March 10, 2015.

Politics of World Music • 129 12. 13. 14.

A similar metaphor can be found in Qur’an (El-Karia, 4). Vecd (wajd in Arabic) can loosely be translated as a trance that arises from practicing zikr or sama. It is generally permitted, and rather encouraged in Sufi orders in order to attain fana (annihilation of self within the divine being). Roland Benedikter, Postmodern Spirituality: A Dialogue in Five Parts, accessed March 15, 2015, www.integral world.net/benedikter1a.html.

Bibliography Appadurai, Arjun. 1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Chaney, David. 2002. “The Power of Metaphors in Tourism Theory.” In Tourism: Between Place and Performance, edited by Simon Coleman and Mike Crang, 193–206. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Değirmenci, Koray. 2013. Creating Global Music in Turkey. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Erlmann, Veit. 1993. “The Politics and Aesthetics of Transnational Musics.” The World of Music 35 (2): 3–15. ——. 1994. “Africa Civilized, Africa Uncivilized: Local Culture, World System and South African Music.” Journal of South African Studies 20 (7): 165–179. ——. 1996. “The Aesthetics of the Global Imagination: Reflections on World Music in the 1990s.” Public Culture 8: 467–487. ——. 1999. Music Modernity and Global Imagination. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Feld, Steven. 1988. “Notes on World Beat.” Public Culture 1: 31–37. ——. 1994. “From Schizophrenia to Schismogenesis: On the Discourses and Commodification Practices of ‘World Music’ and ‘World Beat’.” In Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues, edited by Charles Keil and Steven Feld, 257–289. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ——. 1996. “Pygmy POP: A Genealogy of Schizophonic Mimesis.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 28: 1–35. ——. 2000. “A Sweet Lullaby for World Music.” Public Culture 12 (1): 145–171. Fox, Matthew. 1990. “A Mystical Cosmology: Toward a Postmodern Spirituality.” In Sacred Interconnections: Postmodern Spirituality, Political Economy, and Art, edited by David Ray Griffin, 15–34. New York: State University of New York Press. Frith, Simon. 2000. “The Discourse of World Music.” In Western Music and its Others: Difference, Representation and Appropriation in Music, edited by Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh, 305–322. Berkeley, CA, and London: University of California Press. Garofalo, Reebe. 1993. “Whose World, What Beat: The Transnational Music Industry, Identity and Cultural Imperialism.” The World of Music 35 (2): 16–32. Goodwin, Andrew, and Joe Gore. 1995. “World Beat and the Cultural Imperialism Debate.” In Sounding Off! Music as Subversion/Resistance/Revolution, edited by Ron Sakolsky and Fred Wei-han Ho, 121–131. New York: Autonomedia. Guilbault, Jocelyne. 1997. “Interpreting World Music: A Challenge in Theory and Practice.” Popular Music 16 (1): 31–44. Jameson, Fredric. 1991. Postmodernism or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Keil, Charles, and Steven Feld. 1994. “Commodified Grooves.” In Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues, edited by Charles Keil and Steven Feld, 313–324. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mitchell, Tony. 1996. Popular Music and Local Identity: Rock, Pop, and Rap in Europe and Oceania. London: Leicester University Press. Newport, John P. 1998. The New Age Movement and the Biblical Worldview. Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing. Slobin, Mark. 1992. “Micromusics of the West: A Comparative Approach.” Ethnomusicology 36 (1): 1–87. ——. 1993. Subcultural Sounds: Micromusics of the West. Hanover, PA: Wesleyan University Press. Stokes, Martin. 1999. “Sounding Out: The Culture Industries and the Globalization of Istanbul.” In Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local, edited by Çağlar Keyder, 121–142. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. ——. 2012. “Globalization and the Politics of World Music.” In The Cultural Study of Music, edited by Martin Clayton, Trevor Herbert, and Richard Middleton, 107–116. New York and London: Routledge. Taylor, Timothy. 1997. Global Pop: World Music, World Markets. New York and London: Routledge.

Interview Mercan Dede, personal communication, 12.28.2007

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Discography Mercan Dede. Journeys of a Dervish. Golden Horn 5637395314, 1999, compact disc. ——. Su [Water]. Doublemoon Records DM 0023, 2004, compact disc. ——. Nefes [Breath]. Doublemoon Records DM 033, 2006, compact disc. ——. 800. Doublemoon Records DM 0042, 2007, compact disc. ——. Dünya [Earth]. Onearth Records, 2013, compact disc.

PART

III

Ethnicities

The chapters of Part III present ethnic minorities and their popular music practices in Turkey. Armenian, Kurdish, and Roma people and their music are considered in relationship to Turkish politics and history and the music market. It is interesting that each chapter discusses the varied relationships between the musical practices of these ethnic identities and their emergence as “world music.” Each chapter is an important contribution to the subject. The first chapter, “Ethnic spaces and multiculturalism debates on popular music of Turkey” by Burcu Yıldız, discusses political and social transformations in Turkey during the early 1990s which foster the notion of multiculturalism as the world over as a consequence of globalization, then focuses on previously invisible appearances of ethnic identities in Turkish music. Yıldız, with a background in ethnomusicology, also reviews the history of ethnic minorities and State policies rejecting their identities and the history of ethnic repertoire in Turkey where lyrics until recently were only sang in Turkish. This chapter also discusses Arab influences in Turkish popular music. Finally, with comments on polyculturalism, Yıldız focuses on Anatolian Armenians at the end of her chapter. Chapter 10, “Kurdish popular music in Turkey” by Ozan Aksoy, reviews the history of Kurdish music and its part in the popular music scene of Turkey. Aksoy, with a background in ethnomusicology, also discusses how new media have transformed the music market in Turkey and more specifically the Kurdish music market. He considers Kurdish popular music through the idioms of folk, rap, flamenco, arabesk, and world music. Aksoy also discusses how singing in different Kurdish dialects affects questions of Kurdish identity in terms of both dialect and religion. Finally, Aksoy also shows how these idioms, with their loose political associations, are linked with the Kurdish movement. The final chapter of this part, “Romanistanbul: City, music, and a transformation story” by Özgür Akgül, discusses another ethnic minority, the Roma, in the context of popular music in Turkey. The history and place of the Roma and their part in popular music scene of Turkey diverges somewhat from other ethnicities. Rather than having a distinct music tradition, the Roma contribute to a wide range of musical practices in Turkey, similarly to other regions of the world. With a background in musicology, Akgül focuses on the transformation of Roma musicians from performers of arabesk into performers of world music. This transformation is discussed in relation to changes in the music market and identity politics, which led to the worldwide success of Roma musicians under the label of world music.

9 Ethnic Spaces and Multiculturalism Debates on Popular Music of Turkey Burcu Yıldız

One of the most fundamental social transformations brought about by developments in Turkey after 1980 and particularly from 1990 onwards was the linking of cultural and political demands. The construction of national identity on a single ethnicity and language during the transition from the Ottoman Empire to the Republic began to be debated, and the multiethnic, multireligious, and multilingual Ottoman heritage was virtually rediscovered. The Kemalist model for modernization came under criticism, with the argument that the Republican project made for a system of top-down reforms while ignoring the historical and cultural structure of Turkish society. And of course, the historical context of cultural identity was not only national, but global as well. The period from the late 1980s to the 1990s witnessed a shift in the global agenda as well. The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the dissolution of the USSR and the entire Eastern Block from 1989–1991, the breakup of the former Yugoslavia and the ensuing conflicts in the Balkans, and the first Gulf War following Iraq’s occupation of Kuwait in 1990 were some of the major developments in international politics. Identity-based oppositions and debates about ethnicity—especially Kurdish—in Turkey and the Middle East dominated Turkey’s agenda. The struggle for recognition of Kurdish identity also began to influence the discourse around other ethnic identities in Turkey. And there was the beginning of debate in the public sphere about discriminatory policies towards minorities during the foundation of the nation-state, as well as the beginning of public awareness of the issue. Nationalism and cultural identity led to violent conflicts related to the ways in which the past was remembered and constructed, and thereby emphasizing the importance of studying cultural memory in social sciences. Social developments, political oppression, and the effects of globalization which followed Turkey’s 1980 military coup brought the search for identity to the forefront, increasing interest, and curiosity in the recent past. The study of cultural memory became a vehicle in which the transition between the Ottoman Empire and the Republic, Republican-period minority policies, the Kurdish and Armenian “issues”, the Alevi-Sunni conflict, and the trauma created by all of these conflicts, could be discussed and considered. It also made it possible to take another look at history through the experiences .

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of individuals.1 In Turkey’s popular culture from the early 1990s on, publications addressing ethno-religious diversity and “cultural wealth” with reference to the Ottoman Empire began to appear one after the other.2 Particularly evident were the publication of autobiographical stories and novels by Armenian and Greek authors who wrote about the ways of life in their homelands. This marked the beginning of a practice of remembering that can be considered pioneering efforts for the construction of cultural pluralism. In all these publications—which Canefe defined as “revisionist accounts”—there was an attempt to create a civilized culture of citizenship based on tolerance of differences (2007, 82). These publications mentioned demolished houses, communities torn from their roots, looted or confiscated property, destroyed churches and people who had vanished. However, they did not target nationalism, the culture of intolerance and the top-down approach of the State and military bureaucracy, rather they were mostly nostalgic accounts of beautiful bygone days. In other words, the curtain of silence on history was parted slightly, but without revealing the actors behind that curtain, and those responsible for all those terrible events.3 They stressed lessons for the future without delving thoroughly into the past. In 1991, Kalan Music—founded with the goal of “gathering little-known cultures and their musical genres into archive form and creating a market for this material”—began a pioneering role in record releasing in Turkey.4 The company has been the multicultural face of Turkey in the music industry with its records including Turkey’s “other” languages such as Kurdish, Armenian, Greek, Laz, and Romany. The company’s founding year was no matter of chance; it coincided with the repeal of a law forbidding publications in languages other than Turkish. The law in question (No. 2932), passed in 1983 stated that: “Expressing, diffusing and publishing ideas in any languages other than the first official languages of the countries that Turkey legitimized is forbidden.” The repeal of that law greatly contributed to freedom of expression in Turkey. One of the most important reasons for bringing minorities into Turkish politics as a priority issue was Turkey’s prospective membership of the European Union. The emergence of cultural identities into the public eye coincided with Turkey’s efforts to associate itself with the European Union. Turkey applied for full EU membership for the first time in 1987. From the mid-1990s on, various EU agencies and special institutions became visible in Turkey. In 1999, the EU recognized Turkey’s candidate status at its Helsinki Summit, with the condition that it fulfilled the criteria known as the “Copenhagen Criteria,” including economic reform, human rights, and most importantly the protection of minority rights. The discourse that “minorities in this country have freedom of expression,” which the State developed using music as a vehicle, is an important part of the argument made in this chapter. İsmail Cem, the foreign minister of the time, gave the albums of Kardeş Türküler—a group formed by Boğaziçi University graduates performing folk songs of Turkey’s diverse ethnic groups), Knar (an Armenian band from Istanbul), and Birol Topaloğlu (a musician who sings in Laz) as gifts to the participants of the Helsinki meetings for Turkey’s EU candidacy, presenting them as evidence of Turkey’s cultural mosaic and multiculturalism. What is the background to this symbolic gesture on the part of the State? What sort of political-cultural shift does the production of albums in languages other than Turkish point to? In order to understand this ideological transformation, we must first go back into the past, examine the social transformation in its embrace of ethnicity and language,

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and point out the assimilationist policies that served as a “melting pot” in the founding of the Turkish Republic. Assimilation and the Melting-pot Model in Republican Musical Policies The goal of the governing elite during the transition from the Ottoman Empire to the Turkish Republic was to create a Turkish identity based on a single language and ethnic identity. Kemalist discourse proposed a secular identity, but, in practice, Turkishness was identified with the Muslim majority. A civilian and military elite—representing central government and able to mobilize various means to bring about an ethnic reconstruction of Anatolia—sought to redefine ethnic and religious elements to constitute the nation as Turkish and Muslim. The efforts to Turkify the Muslim population arriving en masse to Ottoman lands from the Balkans and the Caucasus can be considered part of this assimilationist policy. For the non-Muslims of the Empire a policy of gradual assimilation was replaced by a process of demographic and ethnic engineering requiring a radical, massive intervention.5 This process of restructuring was characterized by practices that illustrated the political and economic consequences of such demographic engineering, such as massacres during the deportations, assimilation, the replacement of exiled populations with immigrants of other ethnicities and religions, and the confiscation of the property of exiles and its redistribution to immigrants. As the Empire transformed into a nation-state, it was held essential to recast homogeneous non-Turkish, non-Muslim regions in order to prevent possible future separatist demands. Turkish demographic supremacy would also mean the economic empowerment of ethnic Turks, and assure the development of a national bourgeoisie. Durgun presents the construction of a mono-ethnic foundation in Turkey as a scenario in which “the nationalization of space” and the “spatialization of nation” were interwoven processes. As the spatialization of nation entailed dissimilationist politics, which erased the “other” (in terms of religion) from the space, the nationalization of space entailed assimilationist politics in which all elements (in terms of ethnic origins) were gathered into a single identity (Durgun 2011, 302). One part of this project to create a “modern” nation-state was the proposition to create a “National Music” in which polyphony would be emphasized in line with the policy of Westernization. This invented musical aesthetic, defined as a synthesis of Western music and Turkish folk songs (defined as “national culture”) was based on rejecting the Ottoman legacy. The music of other ethnic groups in Anatolia was either ignored or assimilated and appropriated into Turkish folk music. In association with hypotheses such as the Turkish History Thesis and the Sun Language Theory, the struggle to define a pure, unpolluted Turkish culture included the attempt to demonstrate a Central Asian origin for Turkish music (Stokes 1992). The folk music collection and transcription efforts undertaken in order to create a national repertoire include many examples of rhythmic and melodic changes, as well as the Turkification of melodies sung in Kurdish, Laz, Greek, Armenian, and other languages.

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Alongside the purification and Turkification strategies applied to lyrics, we can say that when non-Turkish ethnic elements could not be assimilated, they were simply ignored. For example, the TRT (Turkish Radio and Television Corporation) archive excluded Pontic Greek songs of the Eastern Black Sea region, and Kurdish songs of Southeastern Anatolia (Hasgül 1996, 43). Another strategy was to deny their existence, and if they did exist, to assimilate them into Turkishness. For example, in the article “The Influence of Turkish Literature on Armenian Literature,” written in 1922 by a prominent intellectual of the period, Fuat Köprülü, the existence of Armenian ashugh (minstrel) literature was not denied; but rather was assimilated into Turkish aşık (minstrel) literature, seen as an ancient treasure of Turkishness (Köprülü 1986 [1922], 268). Mahmut Ragıp Gazimihal, an important pioneering figure in early Republican Period music policy and folk music research, includes an article entitled “The Folk Songs of our Homeland” in his book Anatolian Folk Songs and Our Musical Revolution. In this article he divides the songs of Asia Minor into two groups: “1) Genuine Turkish folk songs with Turkish lyrics, which we call ‘folk songs’ (türkü) and 2) Songs (şarkı) which our minority communities sing in their own languages” (Gazimihal 2006 [1928], 55). Presenting a long excerpt from the “Turkish Music” chapter of Encyclopedie de la Musique, prepared by a committee headed by Albert Lavignac, Gazimihal says disparagingly that Kurdish music could not possibly have any connection with Turkish folk songs (ibid, 57). The excerpt notes how unskilled the zurna performances of Kurdish workers living in Istanbul are, and how the music of every nation may be measured according to their mental level. Gazimihal continues by saying that “there is no example of any particular ‘Armenian melody’ in Anatolia.” In Gazimihal’s view, “just as the Anatolian Armenians know no language other than Turkish, they also use no music other than Turkish songs. The music of the Caucasian Armenians does contain some special qualities, but those emerged under the influence of Turkish music” (ibid). I provide these statements as examples of the competitive, exclusionary, and dismissive discourse of the period. The assimilationist policies functioned as a sort of “melting pot” within the efforts to define a “national” music. Thus the musical culture of that period was enveloped in a nationalist discourse, which provided the groundwork for the musical memory that developed through the generations of Republican history. As Bohlman writes: By claiming that our music is better than anyone else’s, the aesthetic rhetoric that accompanied the rise of the modern nation-state also underwent a dramatic shift from emphasis on the national to the assertion of the nationalist. Comparison was crucial to that shift, and competition was critical to its implications. (Bohlman 2004, 117–118) Yet another endeavor to create a national identity and culture during the early Republican period was the language reform of the 1930s. The first goal of this reform was to eliminate linguistic differences and create a national language. Its second goal was to lessen the Ottoman influence on Turkish and remove foreign words in order to “purify” it (Cagaptay 2006, 54–55). One consequence of this reform in folk music collecting was to remove words considered inappropriate to “original Turkish” or to replace them with those thought to be correct.

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Moreover, the languages of minorities and local dialects were completely ignored for the sake of creating a standard language (Balkılıç 2009, 46). The History Thesis asserted that Turkish was key to both Turkish ethnicity and nationality, while the “Citizen! Speak Turkish” campaign and the “Surname Law” kept the avenues of assimilation open to those who were not ethnically Turkish (Cagaptay 2006, 63). The Turkification of minorities had as its goal the melting of Muslims and non-Muslims of different ethnic origins into the pot of Turkish national identity, thereby recreating them as new and unified Turkish citizens. According to Rıfat Bali, the “Citizen! Speak Turkish” campaign began with a decision taken at the annual meeting of the University Law Department Student Association on January 13, 1928. The Student Association president sought to forbid minorities, especially in Istanbul, using any language other than Turkish in outdoor areas such as streets, boats, trams, and tea gardens, as well as places of entertainment including cinemas and theaters. Signs and posters stating “Citizen! Speak Turkish” were hung in various places. This campaign led to the public harassment of many citizens in Istanbul (Bali 2000, vi–vii). Although the campaign appeared to be directed mainly at non-Muslims, it also included non-Turcophone Muslim communities such as Arabs, Circassians, Muslims from Crete, and Kurds. However, it is said to have been specifically aimed at and effective in the assimilation of Turkish Jews (Cagaptay 2006; Bali 1998, 2000). Another Turkification strategy was to Turkify names and surnames according to the Surname Law in 1934, which required everyone to take a family name.6 As a result, a new formulation, “nation-through-language,” came into being, while the country’s demographic diversity seemed bound to clash with this formulation (Cagaptay 2006, 64). In the wake of discriminatory policies during the Republican period such as the “Conscription of the Twenty Classes,” the “Capital Tax” for non-Muslims, and the pogroms of September 6–7, 1955, most non-Muslims emigrated from the country, while others preferred to withdraw from the public sphere into their own communities. Following the establishment of this historical framework, in the post-Republican years in Turkey, and perhaps until cultural identity became topical in the 1990s, the cultural construction of society was seen with a blind eye to ethnicity, and in fact, little comprehensive work was done in this area. “Citizen! Sing in Turkish” Aside from a few exceptional albums, the mainstream and widely popular musical style known as Turkish pop music is sung in a single language, Turkish. Although there is no legal obstacle or prohibition, the media displays clear self-censorship in this area. Many albums in Turkey’s various minority languages are gathered under an “ethnic” category and considered traditional performance. However, the use of arrangements and traditional motifs from other cultures and languages in Turkish popular songs are examples of the hidden cultural wealth within Turkish pop music. One need only explore the songs released on 45s in the 1960s and 1970s—and still popular today—to witness the cultural diversity of the country. The genre of aranjman, which refers to versions of non-Turkish songs (usually Italian, French or English) with Turkish words, is an area where this variety is particularly evident. These adapted songs can be said to be the pioneers of Turkish hafif (light) music that would follow them.

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However, what is less known or spoken about is that this tradition of adaptation also included songs translated from the languages of “other” ethnic communities living in Turkey. Detailed study reveals that songs originally in Arabic, Armenian, Greek, Judeo-Spanish, Macedonian, and other languages were brought into Turkish Pop with no changes to their arrangements or orchestrations, but just provided with Turkish lyrics. This section will highlight the ethno-linguistic diversity in the repertoire of pop sung in Turkish. An example is the album Töre (Custom) by Cem Karaca (1988), one of the leading names of Anatolian pop. Four songs on the album, “Dur be yeter” (Stop, Enough!), “Sevda kuşun kanadında” (Love on a Wing), “Töre,” and “Dönen dönsün” (Whoever Wishes to, Comes Back) are credited as his own compositions.7 However as Karaca’s wife İlkim said in an interview after his death, Karaca had written Turkish words for traditional Armenian folk songs as well as some works by Armenian composers. Cem Karaca had said that the songs were credited as his own compositions by the record companies, against his will, and that he was very uncomfortable with this. When we compare “Darinerı antsan” as performed in 1985 by the Armenian musician Harut Pamboukjian and “Sevda kuşun kanadında” by Cem Karaca in 1988, the similarities in arrangement, sound, and orchestration are undeniable. There are even striking similarities between the two artists’ images in some photographs and on the record covers. Thanks to the works of Armenian musicians such as Onno Tunç, Arto Tunçboyacıyan, and Ara Dinkçiyan, Armenian tunes have practically flooded the music of Sezen Aksu. One of Tunç’s songs that Aksu performs, “Yalnızca sitem” (Just a Complaint), took its theme from an Armenian ashugh song called “Pınchılig, mınchılig.” For her album Işık doğudan yükselir (The Light Rises in the East), Aksu chose songs that showed the cultural diversity of Anatolia. The song “Var git turnam” (Go, My Crane) was another Armenian folk song for which she and Meral Okay wrote a Turkish lyric.8 Aksu’s album Deniz yıldızı (Sea Star), which she recorded in 2008 with Arto Tunçboyacıyan, aside from his compositions, gained an Armenian flavor with the orchestration, the inclusion of Armenian musicians, and its overall sound. Furthermore, songs by Lebanese and Egyptian Arab musicians such as Fairuz, the Rahbani Brothers, Umm Kulthum, and Mohammed Abdel Wahab have become familiar in Turkey through their Turkish versions sung by such singers as Ajda Pekkan, Neşe Karaböcek, Gönül Akkor, Ferdi Özbeğen, and Erkin Koray. During the 1970s, in particular, the music of Greek taverns was introduced into Turkish pop. One of the most important such albums was Akdeniz Akdeniz (Mediterranean Mediterranean) released in 1983 by the group Yeni Türkü. It included two songs by Manos Loizos, with Turkish lyrics, “Telli telli” (Little Crane Bird) and “Maskeli balo” (Masked Ball), and had a Mediterranean sound including Greek elements such as the use of bouzouki and lyra as lead instruments.9 The Mediterranean sound with its Greek reference, featured on the 1985 release Bir yaz daha bitiyor (Another Summer Ends) by Grup Gündoğarken, introduced something important and different into Turkish popular music (Özer 2003, 201). In 1994, Yeni Türkü released an album of Greek rembetiko songs with Turkish lyrics, Külhani Şarkılar (Rogue Songs), an exact-as-possible translation of Rembetiko Songs. The album’s booklet mentioned the Greek-Turkish population exchange and rembetiko, stating the goal of “bringing the

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past to the present,” at one with the 1990s practice of “remembering the past.” On their 1998 album Mest of Gündoğarken, Grup Gündoğarken sang a song together with Greek singer Vasili Papageorgiou, and as a notable exception to the rule, the video was shown on Turkish television. In the contest of Turkish–Greek relations, all of these songs, building a bridge between the two shores of the Aegean, made a notable contribution to the language of peace and friendship between the two countries. Mikis Theodorakis, Maria Farandouri, and Zülfü Livaneli’s joint projects as well as Sezen Aksu and Haris Alexiou’s friendship concerts can be viewed within this context. But, interestingly, these projects, in their cultural symbolism, made no reference to Turkey’s rapidly disappearing Greek population, focusing rather on Greece. It is almost impossible for the popular music industry to ignore society’s cultural diversity and plurality, because songs are vehicles for sharing, and they function as a symbol of empathy. At the same time, society strongly demands this variety, especially in the context of entertainment. To go to Greek taverns, to drink in meyhanes (taverns) with Romani musicians, to dance halay (a kind of folk dance) with Kurdish music at a wedding and then dance a horon (a kind of folk dance) from the Black Sea is a symbolic expression of the “Mosaic of Anatolia.” In short, this cultural diversity is the expression of a tremendous cultural wealth. The crucial point is, to whom or to which identity does this wealth belong? Between Cultural Mosaic and Melting Pot Since the 1970s, various countries including Britain, the United States, and Canada have adopted official policies of multiculturalism; that is, the acceptance of multiple cultural identities in the same society. Liberal democracies eschew the melting pot concept of assimilation in favor of recognition, demands for rights and autonomy for their minority cultures. Using analogies like “mosaic” or “salad bowl,” liberal multicultural policy aims for a society where cultures live together while keeping their own characters.10 As regards Turkey, since the 1990s, multiculturalism has also been an active concept, with a perception of the non-Turkish ethnic elements as subcultures living adjacently as parts of a mosaic with clearly marked borders. From the multiculturalist perspective of Turkey all ethnic and cultural identities considered sub-cultures are colorful components of the whole, continuing under the hegemony of the dominant culture. The dominant culture therefore has the power to define the “others” sub-culturally and make decisions about the demands made on them. At the same time, the dominant culture has to display tolerance to the others. The millet system of the Ottoman Empire can be seen as a model structure with which to explain the ideal relationship between its diverse communities—historical evidence that different peoples were able to live in peace in this land. What was the constitutive attribute defining millet? First, the term had a specific definition, different from today’s translation as “nation.” Millet defined autonomous religious communities organized around their religious institutions; namely Muslims and all the non-Muslim millets. The former was the Millet-i Hakime (the group who rules) and the latter is Millet-i Mahkume (the group who is ruled).

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According to Baskın Oran, the millet system as the social foundation of the Ottoman Empire had two linked yet conflicting characteristics. First, the millet system was multiculturalist and not assimilative. For instance, non-Muslim societies could autonomously organize their religious practices, social lives, and education, and deal with conflicts in their own court of law as long as the case did not involve a Muslim party. On the other hand, paradoxically, the millet system had a discriminatory structure despite its multiculturalist aspect (2011, 404–405). Non-Muslims, despite being Ottoman citizens, did not have equal status socially or politically. The term “non-Muslim” clarifies the hierarchy between the two groups, in which one defines an “other.” The prefix “non-” introduces a pejorative meaning and consolidates the power relationship. Göçek criticizes Turkish nationalist historiography, which idealizes a society free of conflict and dehistoricizes the relationship between the Muslim and nonMuslim communities (2006, 87). To summarize, the autonomous status of non-Muslims and the millet system in general are characterized as aspects of a system of “tolerance” for non-Muslims in Ottoman history, with the assumption of the natural dominance of the Ottoman administrative elite. Still, cultural ownership in the Ottoman public sphere belonged to the legally-dominant Muslim community. For example, as expressed by many recent researchers, although the statement that Armenian, Greek, and Jewish composers and musicians contributed to the Turkish musical tradition bows to a multicultural reality, the term “contribution” relegates these identities to secondary status, and shows that they were not seen as primary agents of the tradition. Also, the millet system should not lead us to imagine a society exempt from conflict and power struggles. Prejudices and intolerance among the communities sometimes ignited into violence as the result of economic or political conflicts. In addition, deportations, forced resettlements, massacres, unlawful discrimination and violence toward non-Muslims by the state in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries indicated that the “empire of tolerance” could readily turn into an “empire of repression.” Thus, narratives of mosaic multiculturalism in reference to the Ottoman Empire involve a liberal discourse formed from a nostalgic, romantic, and unrealistic construction of “otherness”, detached from the practicalities and ideologies of its everyday life. On the other hand, a concept of mosaic multiculturalism that defines the cultural pluralism of Anatolia as cultural wealth serves Turkish society quite well, especially in the media. In the 2000s, after TRT began including broadcasts in “other” languages such as Kurdish and Arabic, there was a certain amount of relaxation in the broadcasts of private channels. Because the inclusion of local languages other than Turkish in the media was good for a culture of entertainment and increasing audiences, they have been frequently part of music competitions. Letting contestants in song-competitions such as Popstar and Romanstar sing in Kurdish, Laz, and Romani led to an increase in ratings, which generated more textmessages and higher earnings for TV channels and production-companies. Furthermore, although Balkan music is sung in different languages, this has never been seen as a threat because Muslim Bosnians, Albanians, and Macedonians adopted Turkishness as their primary identity during the single nation-state narrative of the Republican period. With the relegation of their sub-identities to the status of folklore, they were successfully assimilated. Balkan music constitutes one of the primary folkloric elements in Turkish pop. Here, the real point

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I wish to bring into the discussion is this: In Turkey, the moment the discourse of cultural diversity and plurality transforms into identity politics that threaten the single nation/single state/single language narrative, the nationalistic reflexes and censorious, prohibitionist mindset behind the narrative of multiculturalism instantly emerge. There are many musical examples of this since the 1990s. In 1998, the Harbiye Military Museum hosted the 2nd Istanbul Music Festival. Organized by the event company Pozitif and Açık Radyo (Open Radio), its program included various ethnic music performances. After the festival began, the concerts of the Armenian group Knar and the Kurdish singer Reşo were cancelled with no explanation given. In reality they were censored only because they represent Armenian and Kurdish identities and languages. That these two groups, pointing to the unresolved taboos of the “Armenian and Kurdish Issues,” were censored, is no real surprise. The fact that Knar’s album, as mentioned at the beginning of this article, was given by the Minister of Foreign Affairs to EU representatives as evidence of Turkey’s multiculturalism, is quite telling. Another example of nationalist reflexes in the area of music is Sezen Aksu’s 2002 Türkiye şarkıları (Songs of Turkey) project. Aksu took the stage and made a call for peace at the violence-marred 2002 Nevruz celebrations happening in Diyarbakır, then the Feriköy Vartanants Armenian Church Chorus, the Los Pasharos Sefaradis Jewish Children’s Ensemble, the Oniro Greek Music Ensemble, the Enderun Turkish Classical Music Ensemble, and the Diyarbakır Municipal Children’s Chorus joined in a very significant political endeavor, Sezen Aksu’s Türkiye şarkıları project, singing songs in Turkish, Greek, Kurdish, Armenian, and Ladino (Gaga 2012).11 One of the project’s concerts was performed in Ephesus on August 30th, Turkish Victory Day, which commemorates the founding of the Turkish Republic. Then General Hurşit Tolon, commander of the Aegean army division, was critical of this type of concert on a national holiday, and this criticism was echoed strongly in the media.12 Aksu’s comments on the concert were as follows: Neither this togetherness nor this concert is “special.” This is our reality, the reality of these lands, it is a natural togetherness . . . We have lived together since Ottoman times. In this very special place, on these extraordinary lands, all voices were already together; and I wanted us to be together. I wanted all of these extraordinary voices to sing together, to sing songs together. (quoted in Aygün 2002) During the concert, Aksu’s statement, “We sang in Armenian and we didn’t split up; let’s sing in Kurdish too,” met with severe criticism from nationalist groups who perceived it as a threat to the indivisibility of the nation-state (quoted in Çelikkan 2002). Yet another long-discussed example of the nationalist reflex in Turkey is what happened to Kurdish singer Ahmet Kaya. In 1999, he said at an awards ceremony organized by the Journalists’ Association that he was going to sing a song in Kurdish on his next album, and was looking for a channel courageous enough to broadcast the video. He said, “I will remain a gadfly to those who don’t recognize the Kurds. Also, I accept this award in the name of human rights, in the name of the Saturday Mothers,” and was immediately booed and

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harassed by a group of shouting people.13 Kaya continued, saying “I will make those who do not accept the Kurdish people admit such a people’s existence.” In the ensuing chaos, there was an attempt to remove him from the stage.14 Finding himself in a serious “violation of boundaries” in the popular media, Ahmet Kaya was forced to leave the country, living in exile until his death. This event stayed part of the discussion of Turkey’s “smear-campaign culture” and limitations on freedom of expression for many years afterwards. As demonstrated in these accounts, there is a constant back-and-forth in Turkey between the multiculturalist “cultural mosaic” narrative and “melting pot” assimilationist policies; it could even be said that these two narratives feed each other. In reality, especially as of the 2000s, a dream—in which all the ethnic, religious, class, gender, and sexual identities that compose Turkey coexist as equal citizens—has begun to find voice in the public arena. The breaking of centuries-old silence and demands for justice rising against discriminatory policies have been noted and supported by liberal democrats in Turkey. On the other hand, conservative nationalist discourse, which excludes any identity other than that of the official ideology, remains powerful both in the public arena and in government. Otherization, xenophobia, and racist and nationalist statements can turn suddenly into symbolic and physical violence through a rise in populism in the name of preserving the status quo and controlling the public sphere. For example, the organizers of a 2005 conference, Ottoman Armenians during the Decline of the Empire: Scientific Responsibility and Problems of Democracy, were accused of treason by the government. Subsequently not only Armenians in Turkey but non-Muslims and their visible representatives became targets. Threats to the Armenian newspaper Agos, attacks on the Armenian and Greek Orthodox patriarchates, the murder of the monk Santoro, Hrant Dink’s assassination and the murder of three Protestants in Malatya made it very clear that in the early 2000s, developments in democratization and cultural pluralism had arguably yielded little in the way of gains. “Sarı gelin” and the Discourse of “Brotherhood” in the Armenian Question In 2007, Armenian journalist Hrant Dink was shot in front of the newspaper office where he worked by of Turkey’s nationalist “dark forces.” Thousands of people attended his funeral in a show of solidarity. The slogan “We Are All Armenian,” written on placards carried by people from all parts of Turkish society, became a symbol of empathy with Turkey’s Armenian community, as people found empathy and put themselves in the place of the “other.” The same feeling is symbolized by the song “Sarı gelin” (The Blonde Bride), which is a well-known folk song in both Turkish and Armenian versions. This song was played countless times on the day of the funeral and at every gathering in front of the Agos offices. Many singers sang the song on their albums, on television programs and in concerts in Turkish and Armenian, as a message of peace. Following Dink’s murder, the media— especially television news—used “Sarı gelin” as a symbol of the “Armenian issue” in general. In the beginning, this song symbolized the cultural similarities and solidarity between the Turkish and Armenian communities about what had happened and articulated the shared nature of this pain; and over time it became an olive branch extended by Turkey’s

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non-Armenians toward Armenians. But in the dominant culture’s language of peace, this olive branch usually became a message of “let’s put history aside, let’s forget what happened and look in front of us.” Or, as a statement of “Armenians are in fact good people, they are our neighbors. Look, we can sing the same song together”, it began to turn into a struggle for legitimacy. “Sarı gelin” became a popular symbol for Armenian identity. The impression I got from many Armenians in Turkey was that people no longer wished to be identified by this song; in fact, they did not even want to hear it again. The discourse of similarity and brotherhood founded on folkloric components like folk songs, food and folk dances can depict Anatolia as a peaceful place, a symbol of a utopian common life. At the point where this discourse is reinforced with pleas of “let’s not talk about the bad memories, let’s sing our songs together,” liberal multiculturalism serves the denial, rather than recognition, of history. In 2003, a six-part documentary series called Sarı Gelin: The Inner Face of the Armenian Issue, produced with the support of the Department of the Chief of Staff and aired on State television (TRT) provided material quite relevant to this discussion (Çelenk and Umaç, 2003). The documentary, in keeping with the official historical narrative, portrayed the Ottoman Armenians as responsible for the deportations and massacres they experienced in 1915. In 2008, the National Ministry of Education had this documentary distributed to all of Turkey’s elementary schools, Armenian schools included. The accompanying memorandum demanded that teachers show the documentary to their students, and then send reports of the results to the provincial administrations. A petition organized by intellectuals and artists, including many Armenians, stated that the film, with its claims and scenes of violence, encouraged discrimination, resentment, enmity, and hate, and demanded that its distribution be halted. The symbolic song “Sarı gelin,” after which the film was named, was again used within a dramaturgy of “similarity” and “brotherhood.” The film opened with a scene of a dancing woman dressed in white, a reference to innocence and purification; she was of course accompanied by the melody of “Sarı gelin.” The documentary began with these captions: Sarı Gelin . . . the common folk song of these lands . . . Sarı Gelin is a lament sung for a lover; it is a wish, it is longing. Sarı Gelin is resistance to the blood feud that some are attempting to revive. Sarı Gelin is an invitation to peace, brotherhood and friendship. (Çelenk and Umaç, 2003) The discourse of “similarity and brotherhood”, in its reductionistism, articulates how much Turks and Armenians (or the “other” ethnicities) have culturally in common, or how much they resemble one another because they live side by side in neighboring regions. These statements could be seen as a well-intentioned, empathetic effort, but emphasizing the legitimacy of loving and respecting those who resemble us or live close by focuses on bringing the “other” closer to “us.” As these “others” persist in being different, as evidenced by the Kurds’ desire to be educated in their mother tongue, by the refusal of Alevis to participate in religion classes with Sunni Islamic content, or by the demands of Armenians for the recognition of 1915, their differences are suppressed by the hegemonic State in the interest of maintaining social balance and harmony. For this reason, the discourse of

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“similarity and brotherhood” is not an effective solution to historical tensions and disagreements; rather it can be seen as an endeavor to sweep them under the carpet. Such multicultural discourse, though peaceful at heart, covers up silence, loss, displacement, and historical conflicts. As stated by Bhikhu Parekh, the inclusive dialog necessary for brotherhood: requires certain institutional preconditions such as freedom of expression, agreed procedures and basic ethical norms, participatory public spaces, equal rights, a responsive and popularly accountable structure of authority, and empowerment of citizens. And it also calls for such essential political virtues as mutual respect and concern, tolerance, selfrestraint, willingness to enter into unfamiliar world of thought, love of diversity, a mind open to new ideas and a heart open to other’s needs, and the ability to persuade and live with unresolved differences. (Parekh 2002, 340) Conclusion From recent academic criticisms of multicultural policy, especially in the context of identity politics, it is clear that the phenomenon of cultural identity—a social and political reality— must be approached not in terms of homogenization and generalizations, but rather on the basis of differences, multiple dimensions, and complexity. So then, rather than approaching citizenship at a nation-state level and within the processes of political participation, is it possible to create multiple definitions of citizenship that focus on socialization and emerge from an intersubjective relationship? Some concepts such as “cultural citizenship,” “polyculturalism,” and “globally-oriented citizenship” bring alternative or complementary ideals for multiculturalist identity politics in pluralistic societies into discussion. The term “cultural citizenship” seems to have been coined by the anthropologist Renato Rosaldo (1997), to examine Latino civic participation in the US in the voicing, claiming, and negotiating of cultural space. On the other hand, Parekh (2008) criticizes the exclusivist view of the State, pointing out that it needs to be replaced by an inclusive or globallyorientated view. He recommends the concept of “globally-orientated citizenship” to cope with the challenge of diversity on the domestic and international level. Furthermore, Podur’s concept of polyculturalism, which presents a workable framework for societies like Turkey, is explained as follows: Polyculturalism recognizes that a single person holds multiple identities, multiple allegiances and affinities. We speak different cultural “languages,” and we can change. And to go from the individual to the society, polyculturalism recognizes that cultures overlap, they change, and they evolve over time. They cross-fertilize, and all societies are in a permanent state of flux, with all kinds of often very creative exchanges and interactions happening. So if a multiculturalist says that a society should allow all cultures to develop autonomously, a polyculturalist says “fine.” But the “wider society” has a culture of its own, and that culture is one that everyone would have to relate to. It is in this shared space where people of different cultures interact that the basis for solidarity

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can be built. So in addition to having cultural autonomy, it would be important that the shared space be representative of everyone . . . (Podur, 2003) It seems that Turkey’s dominant political tradition will insist on the single-identity ideal brought from its past for years to come. In the face of this insistence, which makes itself felt in every sociocultural area, the protective reflexes developed by various cultural identities may lead to a sharpening of the lines defining these identities, and a decrease in contact between them. Going through a similar trial, ethnically-based music in Turkey’s “other” languages must create a living space for itself and continually redefine itself in order to assure its own survival. This politically-motivated effort focused on survival and recognition cannot, for precisely this reason, take a step further and gain the capacity to make itself popular in the public sphere. In other words, as “ethnic spaces” fight to maintain their existence against the power of the State, they remain far from the track to popularity in the wider society of Turkey and mainstream media.15 It appears that the future cultural climate of the country will determine who will prevail in the struggle between those bent on forming an absolutely harmonious choir, or those who desire, in the words of Bakhtin, a carnivalesque polyphony within a dialogical interaction. Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

For further information see Neyzi 2004; 2009; Öztürkmen 2002; Özyürek 2001. See for instance, Andreadis 1996; Ceyhan 1999; Hamasdeğ 1997; Margosyan 2009; Mıntzuri 2008; Yalçın 1998. As the exceptional case see Akçam 1992. See http://en.kalan.com/about-kalan-music/ (accessed May 24, 2015). See Dündar 2010. For further information see Türköz 2004. The Armenian versions of these songs are “Al ayluğıs,” “Darinerı antsan,” “Akh merik,” and “Lusni nıman.” For the Armenian version, “Yar ko parag boyit mernem-Bingyol” performed by Onnik Dinkjian, see www.youtube.com/watch?v=WBmf_GUp7V0. The Greek version of these songs are “Teli, teli, teli” and “Pes mou pou ginetai.” See Kymlicka 1995; Parekh 2002. Nevruz (Newroz) is a ritual in which peoples of Turkey and nearby regions greet the spring, but for Kurds it also symbolizes the national struggle for freedom, and in this sense, is political in nature. See İlkutluğ 2002. The “Saturday Mothers” are a group of mothers who have been holding weekly protests for justice in the name of their disappeared children since 1995. See “Ahmet Kaya Yuhalandı” Hürriyet, February 12, 1999. Accessed June 21, 2014. http://webarsiv.hurriyet. com.tr/1999/02/12/95960.asp. See Yıldız 2016.

Bibliography Akçam, Taner. 1992. Türk ulusal kimliği ve Ermeni sorunu [Turkish national identity and the Armenian question]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Andreadis, Yorgo. 1996. Tamama: Pontus’un yitik kızı [Tamama: The lost girl of Pontus]. Istanbul: Belge YayınlarıMarenostrum. Aygün, Aslı. 2002. “Yasa mecliste icraat Sezen’den.” [Parliament approves a law for Sezen.] Hürriyet, September 1.

146 • Burcu Yıldız Bali, Rıfat. 1998. “Edirne Yahudileri.” [The Jews of Edirne.] In Edirne: Serhattaki payitaht [Edirne: Border Capital], edited by E. Nedret İşli and M. Sabri Koz, 205–227. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. ——. 2000. “Vatandaş Türkçe konuş! veya bir ulus-devletin kuruluşunda dil birliğinin gerçekleşmesi çabaları.” [Citizens, speak Turkish! or a national government’s efforts for a unified founding language.] In Vatandaş Türkçe konuş, edited by Avram Galanti, v–viii. Ankara: Kebikeç Yayınları. Balkılıç, Özgür. 2009. Cumhuriyet, halk ve müzik: Türkiye’de müzik reformu, 1922–1952 [The Republic, people and music: Music reform in Turkey 1922–1952]. Istanbul: Tan Kitabevi Yayınları. Bohlman, Philip V. 2004. The Music of European Nationalism: Cultural Identity and Modern History. California: ABC-CLIO. Cagaptay, Soner. 2006. Islam, Secularism, and Nationalism in Modern Turkey: Who is a Turk? New York: Routledge. Canefe, Nergis. 2007. Anavatandan yavruvatana: Milliyetçilik, bellek ve aidiyet [From the Motherland to the beloved land: Nationalism, memory and belonging]. Istanbul: İstanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları. Çelikkan, Murat. 2002. “Hepimiz ucundan tutcez.” [We are all rather hung up.] Radikal, September 2. Ceyhan, Kirkor. 1999. Kapıyı kimler çalıyor [Who’s ringing at the door]. Istanbul: Belge Yayınları-Marenostrum. Dündar, Fuat. 2010. Modern Türkiye’nin şifresi: İttihat ve Terakki’nin etnisite mühendisliği (1913–1918) [The Code of modern Turkey: Ethnicity engineering for union and progress (1913–1918)]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Durgun, Sezgi. 2011. Memalik-i şahane’den vatan’a [From a great country to the fatherland]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Gazimihal, Mahmut R. 2006 [1928]. Anadolu türküleri ve musiki istikbalimiz [Anatolian folk songs and musical revolution]. Istanbul: Doğu Kütüphanesi. Göçek, Fatma M. 2006. “Defining the parameters of a post-nationalist Turkish historiography through the case of the Anatolian Armenians.” In Turkey beyond Nationalism: Towards Post-Nationalist Identities, edited by Hans-Lukas Kieser, 80–98. New York: I.B. Tauris. Hamasdeğ. 1997. Güvercinim Harput’ta kaldı [My pigeon stayed in Harput]. Istanbul: Aras Yayıncılık. Hasgül, Necdet. 1996. “Cumhuriyet dönemi müzik politikaları.” [The politics of music during Republican era.] Folklora doğru, 62: 27–49. İlkutluğ, Mert. 2002. “Bu konseri şüpheyle karşılıyorum.” [I suspect this concert.] Milliyet, September 1. Köprülü, Mehmet F. 1986 [1922]. “Türk edebiyatı’nın Ermeni edebiyatı üzerindeki te’sirleri.” [Turkish influence on Armenian literature.] In Edebiyat Araştırmaları, 239–269. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basım Evi. Kymlicka, Will. 1995. Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights. London: Oxford University Press. Margosyan, Mıgırdiç. 2009 [1994]. Gavur mahallesi [The Infidel neighbourhood]. Istanbul: Aras Yayıncılık. Mıntzuri, Hagop. 2008 [1993]. İstanbul anıları: 1897–1940 [Memories of Istanbul: 1897–1940]. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Neyzi, Leyla. 2004. Ben kimim? Türkiye’de sözlü tarih, kimlik ve öznellik [Who am I? Oral history, identity and subjectivity in Turkey]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. ———, ed. 2009. Nasıl hatırlıyoruz? Türkiye’de bellek çalışmaları [How do we remember? Studies on memory in Turkey]. Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları. Oran, Baskın. 2011. “Son tabu’nun kökenleri: Türkiye kamuoyunun Ermeni sorunundaki tarihsel-psikolojik tıkanışı.” [Origins of the Last Taboo: Psycho-Historical Blocks in Turkey about the Armenian Question.] In İmparatorluğun çöküş döneminde Osmanlı Ermenileri: Bilimsel sorumluluk ve demokrasi sorunları [Ottoman Armenians at the collapse of the empire: Scientific responsibility and questions of democracy], edited by Fahri Aral, 393–415. Istanbul: İstanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları. Özer, Yetkin. 2003. “Crossing the Boundaries: The Akdeniz Scene and Mediterraneanness.” In Mediterranean Mosaic: Popular Music and Global Sounds, edited by Goffredo Plastino, 199–221. New York: Routledge. Öztürkmen, Arzu. 2002. “Sözlü tarih: Yeni bir disiplinin cazibesi.” [Oral history: The charm of a new discipline.] Toplum ve bilim 91: 115–121. Özyürek, Esra, ed. 2001. Hatırladıklarıyla ve unuttuklarıyla Türkiye’nin toplumsal hafızası [Remembering and forgetting: Turkey’s social memory]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Parekh, Bhikhu. 2002. Rethinking Multiculturalism: Cultural Diversity and Political Thought. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. ——. 2008. New Politics of Identity: Political Principles for an Interdependent World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Podur, Justin. 2003. “Revolutionizing Culture: Part one.” Znet, Accessed July 19, 2014. https://zcomm.org/znetarticle/ revolutionizing-culture-part-one-by-justin-podur/ Rosaldo, Renato. 1997. “Cultural Citizenship, Inequality, and Multiculturalism.” In Latino Cultural Citizenship: Claiming Identity, Space and Rights, edited by William V. Flores and Rina Benmayor, 27–38. Boston: Beacon Press. Stokes, Martin. 1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Türköz, Meltem F. 2004. “The Social Life of the State’s Fantasy: Memories and Documents on Turkey’s 1934 Surname Law.” PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania.

Ethnic Spaces and Multiculturalism Debates • 147 Yalçın, Kemal. 1998. Emanet çeyiz: Mübadele insanları [The reliable trousseau: Trade in people]. Istanbul: Belge Yayınları. Yıldız, Burcu. 2016. Experiencing Armenian Music in Turkey: An Ethnography of Musicultural Memory. Würzburg: Ergon-Verlag.

Discography Aksu, Sezen. Işık doğudan yükselir [The light rises in the East]: Ex Oriente Lux. Foneks, 1995, compact disc. ——. Deniz yıldızı [Sea star]. Doğan Music Company 100168, 2008, compact disc. Gündoğarken. Bir yaz daha bitiyor [Another summer ends]. Göksoy Plak, 1986, audiocassette. ——. Mest of Gündoğarken [The best of Gündoğarken]. Universal 19642, 1998, compact disc. Karaca, Cem. Töre [Custom]. Emre Plak H.E. 579, 1988, audio cassette. Yeni Türkü. Akdeniz Akdeniz [Mediterranean Mediterranean]. Göksoy Plak 006, 1990, compact disc. Originally released in 1983. ——. Külhani şarkılar [Low-life songs (Rembetiko songs)]. Göksoy Plak 076, 1994, compact disc.

Filmography Çelenk, Ahmet and İsmail Umaç (directors). Sarı gelin: Ermeni sorununun iç yüzü [The blonde bride: The true face of Armenian question]. 2003. DVD edition: Videotek film, 2006. Gaga, Yaşar (director). Sezen Aksu: Türkiye şarkıları (Live in Concert) [Songs of Turkey]. DVD edition: İmaj, 2012.

10 Kurdish Popular Music in Turkey Ozan Aksoy

Introduction This descriptive study examines the current state of Kurdish popular music consumed by mostly Kurdish but also Turkish audiences in Turkey, home to the largest number of Kurds in the world. Kurdish popular music has been mediated historically between the multiple locations where Kurds and Kurdish immigrants reside. This chapter introduces some of the recent transitions of Kurdish popular music texts and their contexts, including global trends such as world-beat and hip-hop. It also identifies some of the unique qualities of Kurdish popular music, with specific emphasis on the use of traditional and modern instruments, and its musical forms. Kurdish popular music, as a consequence of the efforts of Kurdish and Turkish musicians, as well as changes in the political and artistic climates, has become more diverse and multifaceted in its forms of expression and content than in the 1990s, during the peak of the Kurdish– Turkish conflict. To that end, we might understand popular musicians’ attempts to represent and relate—in their albums and performances—to peace and reconciliation, cultural memory, space, history, and the environment in their musical expressions over the last two decades. Thus, I examine significant trends in the diversification of Kurdish music from the 2000s to the 2010s. Kurdish Musical History in the Turkish Context In order to situate Kurdish musicians within a historical context, it is useful to briefly discuss the musical climate and context of music making in Turkey since the early twentieth century. Following the First World War, the majority of Kurdish speaking lands (Kurdistan) were divided between the states of Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. In these countries, musicians who sang in Kurdish faced harsh punishments from these states as part of the denial, homogenization, and assimilation policies that forbade cultural production by Kurds (Beşikçi 1997; van Bruinessen 2000). In many instances, these harsh policies presented Kurdish musicians, artists, and scholars with choices that resulted in either persecution by the government or forced exile. Among the most stringent policies against Kurdish culture and music were those of the Turkish Republic, enacted soon after its founding in 1923, that established a legal framework to silence political and cultural activities perceived as internal threats against the government (Aksoy 2014).

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In informal gatherings, the folk music tradition of dengbêj (Kurdish troubadours), played a major role in transmitting old Kurdish folk tunes and stories to new generations of Kurds. Lamentations and other forms articulating sadness constitute a significant portion of the poetry, folk music, and epics sung by the dengbêj. The history of displacement and the atrocities they or their parents suffered, along with an already existing repertoire of longing and laments for the dead, have contributed to the extensive lexicon of sadness in Kurdish culture. However, due to State policies, it was almost impossible to hear recordings of such music in Turkey until the 1970s, when homemade bootleg cassettes of local singers began to appear, secretly distributed among Kurds to be listened to at home. Before the circulation of such cassettes, the only way to hear Kurdish music was Kurdish music broadcasts from Yerevan, Armenia, and Baghdad. Thus, key developments in Kurdish folk music in Turkey, ironically, occurred in other countries. Illegally-copied and furtively-disseminated cassettes of Kurdish singers living in exile, such as Şivan Perwer, Nizamettin Arıç, and Ciwan Haco, were the first Kurdish albums to circulate among Kurds in Turkey. In the late 1980s, Kurdish nationalist movements developed markedly, primarily through the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), the Kurdistan Socialist Party (PSK), and other similar (mostly banned) groups. A recent discursive analysis of ideological texts produced by the Kurdish movement, primarily by the PKK, suggests three separate periods in the history of Kurdish activism (Güneş 2012). Until the early 1970s, Güneş argues, Kurds in Turkey emphasized the joint struggle of Kurdish and Turkish progressives against internal and external oppressors, namely those of feudal and imperialist systems. From the late 1970s onward, and especially after the rise of the PKK, the dominant Kurdish discourse became one of national liberation of Turkish Kurdistan from being a Turkish colony. Another shift in the Kurdish politicalactivist discourse took place in the late 1990s, becoming especially apparent after the imprisonment of the PKK leader, Abdullah Öcalan, in 1999. From then on, the PKK renounced the goal of an independent Kurdish state and redefined as its objective that Turkey establishes an inclusive democracy with equal rights for all Kurds and Turks (Güneş 2012). In the 1990s, the most common theme in almost all public statements of Kurdish musicians concerned reconciliation between Kurds and Turks (labeled by the Turkish state as Kürt Sorunu—the “Kurdish Question” or “Kurdish Problem”). In other historical writings on minorities, the oppressor has often euphemistically termed conflicts with minorities as a “question” or “problem,” with its pejorative connotation that we might demote the assertions of minorities to mere questions. Kurds, as I will show, have a distinct identity and culture, not at all in “question.” Nonetheless, the term has been embraced, or used ironically, by nearly everyone involved with the conflict. In order to better understand the Kurdish identity claimed by musicians in this study, I first examine the history of the “Kurdish Question” in Turkey, since most Kurdish musicians I have met embrace their Kurdish identity in the context of the conflict between Turkey and its self-identified Kurdish citizens. Reconciliation between Turks and Kurds forms part of the discursive analysis of the work of musicians of both ethnicities. In this chapter, I say that the continuing conflict acted to propel some Kurdish musicians into political and

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cultural activism. This process is manifested in the songs, composed, performed, and disseminated from the late 1990s through to the present day. Over the past 30 years, the Kurdish conflict has been a more or less continual national crisis in Turkey, creating major obstacles for the articulation of Kurdish identity and demands for equal rights. When discussed in the public sphere by the Turkish media, government officials, and others, Kurds are nearly always mentioned in the context of conflict, intimately connected to political violence, separatism, or terrorism (Aksoy 2014). While the influence of the State on Kurdish music is clearly apparent through actions such as censoring undesirable content and punishing artists who oppose State demands, actions by the opposing PKK also greatly influenced the shape of Kurdish popular music through its selective backing for individual artists. Until the early 2000s, both powers formed the sonic world of their followers, but in the end, this bipolar dominance lost influence as other political actors became more involved with alternative artistic, musical, and political production. Politically active musicians and artists created alternative protest voices, challenging the hegemony of the Republic of Turkey, and, to some extent, the PKK. The power of the political center gradually diminished during the 1990s and 2000s as new agents became more influential among their audiences. Beside State actors, religious, cultural, and local organizations emerged that benefited from the new more open environment. The last iteration of this shift came as internal immigration—in the form of Kurds moving from their home towns and villages to urban centers—established a new transnational social area. Later developments in Kurdish popular music included efforts towards peace and reconciliation with the State. Although some Kurdish musicians occasionally resorted to militant and politically-charged music, most played an important role as arbitrators or mediators between Kurds and Turks. In 2009, the ruling Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (the AKP or Justice and Development Party) started the project of “democratic opening” to begin a dialogue about Turkey’s internal problems, starting with a conversation on Kurdish identity and civil and cultural rights. In 2010, then Turkish prime minister (later President) and AKP leader, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, met with some 60 musicians and composers to discuss the country’s democratic initiative. At the meeting, Erdoğan gathered Turkey’s some 60 celebrities to talk about the government’s plans to end the civil war between Turks and Kurds by extending more cultural rights to Kurds. Turkey’s most popular singers, such as Sezen Aksu, Ajda Pekkan, İbrahim Tatlıses, Emel Sayın, Ferhat Göçer, and Mahsun Kırmızıgül, were among the participants. This relatively modest development encouraged some peace-seekers and highlighted the significance of reconciliative efforts. The accelerated peace process (barış süreci)1 between the government and the PKK, led to a ceasefire in early 2013 between PKK guerrillas and the Turkish army. In order to increase the public profile of the reconciliation process, some political parties and religious organizations, including the AKP, have begun invoking the common religious bond between Kurds and Turks, most of whom are Sunni Muslim. The visit to Turkey in 2013, at Erdoğan’s invitation, together with the President of Iraqi Kurdistan, Masoud Barzani, by exiled Kurdish musician Şivan Perwer (his first visit to his homeland in 37 years) to duet with İbrahim Tatlıses marked a shift in the politics of the Turkish government to increase public support for reconciliation by drawing on the popularity of these two famous singers.

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Diversification in Content, Media, and Dissemination: Istanbul and the İMÇ in 2014 In order to understand the state of Kurdish music in Turkey, I begin with a report based on a recent visit to Istanbul, a city now on a path to losing its status as the center of the Kurdish music industry. In May 2014, I visited Kom Müzik, located in the Unkapanı district on the 6th block of the Istanbul Mefruşatçılar Çarşısı (İMÇ, Istanbul Interior-Fitting Wholesalers Bazaar). This area of the bazaar used to only host music production stores and offices, making the 6th block the center of the Turkish and Kurdish music industry. It was striking to see that many of those companies had gone out of business, due to the limited profit to be made from selling cassettes and CDs. One of the most visible changes was the presence of numerous textile-based wholesalers that have largely replaced the music companies. Emblematic of the increasingly dramatic socioeconomic and political conservatism in the city and country, another striking change is the rapid growth of hijab fashionshops (tesettür in Turkish vernacular)—modernized Islamic-clothing stores—selling hijab and other modernized clothing for pious Muslim women. These sites also formerly held music stores. The change in Unkapanı is a testament of the changing face of music production, distribution, and organization. The same is true for musical production elsewhere in Turkey. As a result, getting a sense of sales numbers to see what albums are bought most, it turns out, is not a good source of information about what is actually popular. The great majority of songs shared by fans, as in many other places in the world, are not directly paid. Rather, the fans follow YouTube playlists and other streaming sources, most of which are free. It is worth mentioning that some Turkish record labels such as Kalan make significant income from streaming. There are also internet radio channels, with nonstop streaming of Kurdish music for listeners with internet access. Thus, the sales numbers usually provide only characteristic information, for prestige and promotional purposes. As one of the producers at Kom Müzik told me, “We produce and distribute only a couple of thousand CDs for even our most popular singers.” As with many other communities in the world, neither Kurds nor Turks are ready to pay for MP3s or downloads. It is now not as easy as it was to make large sums of money from the direct sale of music to the consumer via shops as the popularity of streaming and apps grows; instead, musicians and labels still make some money from the direct sales via mail order or at concerts. These political and economic turns are challenges not only for the physical production of music but also its distribution. The diversification of music production serves to reduce the political control previously exercised by the PKK or the State. Various political parties, or individuals, with their own particular political agendas, support different musicians and groups for their causes. It is this significant shift of the decentralization process that makes available multiple voices with various musical, artistic, linguistic, and political features for audiences in Turkey. Compared to the bipolar power milieu of the 1990s, with the PKK and the State as two competing cultural and political poles, more actors in the 2010s are able to intervene between these two decision-making loci. In recent years, diverse political and cultural production hubs, including those working transnationally outside Turkey, have replaced the bipolar

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scene around the Kurdish Question. Along with this political decentralization, there has been an increase in the diversification of locales where music is produced and distributed, thanks to satellite TV, radio, the internet and social media. Music produced in Germany, Iran, or Iraq has now acquired many ways to enter the aesthetic world of Kurds and Turks, as well as the soundscapes of cities. Contested Spaces A significant point of contention between pro-Turkish government and pro-Kurdish political alliances has been the State-run Kurdish-language TV channel, TRT-6, or TRT-Şeş, which broadcasts from the government’s point of view. Kurdish musicians are paid well to perform on TRT-6’s entertainment programs. However, because the channel has pro-government or anti-Kurdish-nationalist management, many Kurdish musicians—some of them well known—have boycotted it. I visited the channel in 2012 to meet musicians and Nilüfer Akbal, the host of one of the channel’s prime-time music shows. Ms. Akbal complained about the state of Kurdish music and the absence of many Kurdish musicians on the channel, an absence that causes polarization within the community. TRT-6, according to some Kurdish musicians I interviewed, has been seen as a ploy to dupe Kurds to embrace the government’s politics, while decreasing the influence of the PKK and other political actors regarding cultural, intellectual, ideological, and political dialogue. This assertion requires further academic scrutiny but serves as an example of the political struggle over art and music-making spaces in Turkey. (The resignation in 2009 of the female host, Rojîn, after receiving threats and constant intimidation from pro-Kurdish producers and musicians, also requires our attention.) Along with the democratization of the dissemination of Kurdish music comes the proliferation of internet radio sites such as www.radyohevi.com, which features nonstop streaming of Kurdish music. This is one of many internet-radio channels that Kurds in Turkey and elsewhere tune into to listen to all kinds of Kurdish popular music. There are many other outlets streaming music through radio, the internet, satellite TV, and over smartphones through new apps and services like Pandora and Spotify. I argue that this recent proliferation encourages the decentralization of music production and distribution while underlining that traditional sales mean little in assessing the popularity of given records. One noticeable trend is the reissue of previously censored albums by Kurdish artists such as Şivan Perwer and Ciwan Haco. Companies re-releasing older recordings capitalize on the reputation and fan base of these famous singers in the more open era. Released alongside those previously banned Kurdish musicians are repackaged albums of, for example, İbrahim Tatlıses and Ahmet Kaya, also bought by a Kurdish audience. Production and distribution companies cater to the nostalgia of the audience. The firm visibility of these albums also indicates a dearth of more contemporary stars; Tatlıses (still alive but much less active than he was before the nearly-successful attempt on his life in 2011 by unknown assailants) and Kaya (who died in exile in 2000) accomplished much more in the decades while they were active than have recent artists.

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Kurdish “Flamenco” Aynur Doğan (usually known just as Aynur), an internationally-renowned Kurdish singer and songwriter, emerged as one of the key figures in the Kurdish popular music scene in the early 2000s. Her 2010 album, Rewend (Nomad), has a conceptual theme of the preservation of tradition and historical monuments with environmental activism. Although she enjoys popularity among both Kurds and Turkish progressives, on July 16, 2012, a large crowd of concertgoers, on the eve of a PKK attack against the Turkish armed forces, booed and jeered her at the Istanbul Jazz Festival when she performed Kurdish songs. This harassment was a reminder to all Kurdish musicians in Turkey to be cautious about the country’s political climate and the “Kurdish Question”; a caution which might lead us to reconsider the musical representations relating to cultural memory, space, history, environment, peace, and reconciliation over the past two decades. Sony Music Classical released Aynur’s latest album Hevra (Together), under the label of World Music including those released inside Turkey. Hevra (Figure 10.1) features Kurdish folk music with flamenco-inspired world-beat arrangements. The album’s audience is made up of both fans of world music, and Turks and Kurds who appreciate Aynur’s voice. It features vibrant sections of experimental use of flamenco guitar and voice, making for bold arrangements of a largely Kurdish folk repertoire. These arrangements may not appeal aesthetically to purist Kurdish and Turkish listeners, as the target audience is clearly not limited to that audience in Turkey. It is a well-crafted album, the result of long preparation, recorded and mixed by talented musicians and producers in Spain and the USA. It is, I think, a refreshing attempt at incorporating Aynur’s unique and powerful Kurdish vocal delivery with Spanish flamenco vocals and instrumental forms and techniques. As an invigorating example of musical collaboration between quite unrelated styles, Hevra, thanks to its strong performances and disparate hybrid influences, marks a new development for Kurdish popular music. Urban Youth and Kurdish Rap Part of the diversification of Kurdish music has been the emergence of urban music groups established in Istanbul, such as Bajar (The Town) and Kardeş Türküler (Solidarity Folksongs). These groups perform Kurdish and Turkish urban folk music for a young audience comprised mostly of Kurdish, Turkish, and Armenian progressives in Istanbul, Ankara, Izmir, and elsewhere. Aided by these concerts including folk music in different languages, Kurdish music has become part of the larger folk music scene in Turkey. Kurdish youth enjoy dance hall playlists combining popular dance tracks mostly from the West with local or traditional songs in Kurdish and Turkish. Compared to Turkish rap’s decline in popularity, Kurdish rap has become more popular among the Kurdish youth I have interviewed; and generally, Kurdish youth are participating more in popular culture than they used to, consuming Turkish and Kurdish, as well as Western, music of all kinds. Kurdish hip-hop initially lacked the commercial support enjoyed by Turkish hip-hop until pro-Kurdish production companies realized its potential and growing popularity

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Figure 10.1 Album Cover of Aynur’s Hevra (Together), Sony Music Classical, 2014

among Kurdish youth (Solomon 2006). One of the recent success stories of Kurdish rap has been that of Serhado. Born in 1984, Serhado is a second-generation immigrant whose parents settled in Sweden in the early 1970s. In an interview with Kurdish journalist Mehmet Aslanoğlu, he argued that hip-hop is the music of struggle. His music features political lyrics calling on Kurds to unite. Most Kurdish albums released in Turkey have Turkish translations as well as sometimes English or German texts; though Serhado’s Bihuşta xeyalan (Paradise of the Imagination) (Figure 10.2), produced by Kom Müzik, includes no translations. Kom also produced Berfîn Mamedova’s Koçber (Immigrant) (Figure 10.3), a modern sounding Kurdish album. It includes some of the most renowned Istanbul studio musicians, contributors to the creation of the popular, folk, experimental sounds, and soundtracks of

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Figure 10.2 Album Cover of Serhado’s Bıhus¸ta Xeyalan, Kom Müzik, 2013

Turkey over the last two decades: Ertan Tekin, duduk, Osman Aktaş, kaval (end-blown flute), İsmail Soyberk, bass, Erdinç Şenyaylar, guitar. The use of piano, saxophone, and other Western instruments gives the album a modern sound—from another place and time, an anonymous quality standard to other records, the only distinguishing feature being the Kurdish of the songs. Mamedova, a Kurd from the former Soviet Union, whose lyrics sometimes refer to the Kurdish nationalist struggle, usually sings about love and loss. Some of the tracks resemble the arrangements of the Gypsy Kings and feature Mediterranean harmonic progressions. The recording weaves flamenco guitar arrangements of love songs with songs of the Kurdish struggle from all over the Middle East.

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Almost all recent Kurdish popular music albums, like their Turkish counterparts, feature different forms and accompanimental styles of various guitars, especially those of classical guitar. The different accompanying guitar styles are similar to songster traditions from around the world. For those who do not know the language, contemporary Kurdish records, and especially their instrumental parts, would sound very similar to folk records from Ireland, Chile, Greece, Iran, and Lebanon. Most of the album’s songs echo the vocal and instrumental stylistic trends of songsters worldwide, the late Greek singer Nikos Xilouris for example. The lyrics are derived from the epic love poem, Mem û Zîn, the greatest Kurdish love story, passed from generation to generation by dengbêj (Kurdish troubadours). Hîvron’s 2013 album Mem û Zîn/Welat (Mem and Zîn/The Homeland) (Figure 10.4) also features the contemporary trend in the arrangement of Turkish folk music in its emphasis on guitar’s rhythmic and melodic riffs, classical and acoustic, muted and open.

Figure 10.3 Album Cover of Berfîn Mamedova’s Koçber, Kom Müzik, 2014

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Figure 10.4 Album Cover of Hîvron’s Mem û Zîn/Welat, Kom Müzik, 2013

The poet Ehmede Xanî’s love story about Kurdish life has made its way into books and movies, and other media. It features electric guitar, violin, and cello and puts Kurdish music on a par with world music albums from the last thirty or so years, such as those of the Canadian singer-songwriter Loreena McKennitt. The lyrics recount a love story, with most of the songs following international models in their vocal and instrumental harmonies. Guitar chords, arpeggios, and violin melodies, parallel vocals, like countless Western albums, are also part of Mem û Zîn. In a sense, Hîvron (the nom-de-plume of Nusret Îmîr), is a modern dengbêj, updating the Xanî’s poem in a modern folk style, or Kurdish folk. Hîvron is one of many Kurdish folk singers whose guitar and vocal styles are influenced by Irish music.

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Dedicated to all Kurdish female musicians, Kezî-Stranên dengbejê jin (Bangs-Songs of Women Balladeers) by the Kurdish singer Rojda (Figure 10.5) is probably one of the most developed Kurdish albums, with its rich textures and different arrangement styles accompanying the poetry and narrative texts, sung from a woman’s perspective. Kezi features storytelling, including lamentations, lullabies, modern and traditional sung poetry, delivered in a complex way. The album includes an extended booklet with the texts and information about the melodies in Kurmancî (one of the main Kurdish dialects), with Turkish, and English translations. Produced and distributed by Kom Müzik, this ambitious project seeks to preserve some of the best poetry by Kurdish women. It features Rojda’s vibrant vocal renditions and experimental arrangements inspired by contemporary electronic music, as well as the elaborate lamentation techniques of female Kurdish poets. A handful of songs features

Figure 10.5 Album Cover of Rojda’s Kezî-Stranên Dengbejê Jin, Kom Müzik, 2014

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prolonged, elaborately rhythmic and non-metric vocal passages woven into this poetic genre. Some of the songs are highly complex in texture and form. Kurdish women of previous generations and other singers with powerfully vibrant and heightened vocal timbre undoubtedly influenced Rojda’s vocal delivery style. Kezî is a significant album that should be in the libraries of Kurdish music aficionados and female musicians around the world. Kurdish Arabesk Dema azadî (Time for Independence) was released in 2013 and follows Diyar’s previous work regarding its musical world and aesthetic. Some critics have accused him privately of making Kurdish arabesk given that his music and lyrics revolve around themes typically found in classical Turkish arabesk music. Arabesk is a generic label used to refer to the Turkish hybrid, an urban musical genre incorporating Arabian aesthetics with various local musical elements dating from 1970 (Stokes 1992), with lyrics typically centered on love themes. In Dema azadî (Figure 10.6), Diyar includes several songs of Kurdish nationalistic aspiration with lyrics emphasizing the album’s title. Nevertheless, the album still features vocals arranged in the style of Kurdish arabesk, a term used to diminish the value of music by politically-active musicians who demand aesthetic and political consciousness from fellow Kurdish musicians. Arranged by Yaşar Başözde and Abut, the album suffers from an unclear mixture of tracks; and in some places chords and instruments in the background clutter, the central theme foregrounded in the melodies and vocals. Even though Diyar is one of the most famous singers among his peers, it seems that lower standards in recording, editing, mixing, and mastering are emblematic of a lack of emphasis on the production and artistic quality. With its title song, Diyar captures the Kurdish national spirit with a simple march-like melody and lyrics of reverence for Kurdish fighters in Turkey, Iran, and Iraq. The song “Zindane Irane” (Iranian Prison) is about Iranian prisons where hundreds of Kurdish activists have been confined, and some executed. As in his previous albums, he calls Kurds to celebrate Newroz (Kurdish New Year), which has become a politicized celebration since the 1980s. His tunes are memorable and simple. Diyar’s vocal style and songs are inspired by the extensive Kurdish folk music repertoire, both indigenous and absorbed from neighboring cultures—Turkish, Arabic, Armenian, and Assyrian among others. Another recent development in Kurdish popular music is the effort of producers to include at least one song on an album in Zazakî. If possible, producers also like to include songs from other Kurdish dialects, such as Hewramî and Soranî, as well of course as the most commonly-spoken dialect, Kurmancî. Dema azadî is no exception and includes a song in Zazakî as well as 13 in Kurmancî, most of which were composed by Diyar. Rêzan Şîrvan’s Ji te dur ım (I am far from you) (Figure 10.7) is an excellent example of a recent trend in Kurdish music. A significant difference of albums featuring arabesk, unlike most albums released by Kom, is found in the economic motivation of their release, rather than a primarily political agenda. However, clearly, there is a market of Kurds who would like to listen to arabesk, mostly for entertainment.

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Figure 10.6 Album Cover of Diyar’s Dema azadî, Kom Müzik, 2013

Though there are a few tracks where Şîrvan shows her Kurdish national consciousness, overall, sounds are geared toward the arabesk market for Kurds of Turkey, especially for weddings and other festivities. Many tracks feature similar arrangement styles heard on almost all folk music albums released in Istanbul over the last twenty years. Typical are the use of bağlama, muted-bağlama, strings, guitar, and piano chords and arpeggios, bendir (frame drum), and other percussion instruments, along with occasional melodic renk (color) instruments, such as kemençe (fiddle), duduk (double-reed flute), oud (lute), and ney (end-blown flute) and kaval. The most arabesk arrangement of the album in the song “Digrim” (Questioning), a Kurdish appropriation of an Arabic song (a practice which has happened to Kurdish music for decades in Turkish appropriations of Kurdish folk tunes).

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Figure 10.7 Album Cover of Rêzan S¸îrvan’s Ji Te Dur Im, Aydın Müzik, 2014

Şîrvan also sings duets with both Diyar and Dengbêj Kazo, showing her respect for the Kurdish dengbêj tradition. She ends the album with a medley, a common practice in folk music albums released in Turkey since 1980. Such medleys comprise rhythmically-similar tunes juxtaposed to serve line dances accompanying folk songs at weddings. The album was released by Aydın Müzik, which has released other Kurdish albums, including Erê yarê by Önder Karataş. Like Şîrvan’s album, Erê yarê ends with a medley of Kurdish linedance music; most of the constituent songs are Kurdish nationalist in tone with lyrics referencing symbolic locations and names pertaining to the Kurdish popular and/or armed struggles.

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Minimalists and Local Dialects Mem Ararat’s Quling, ewr û baran (Crane, Cloud, and Rain) (Figure 10.8), is an example of a minimalist album, predominantly featuring guitar, vocals, and occasionally bağlama, keyboard, and different drums. The album was recorded in Adana (as were some of the tracks on Diyar’s album). An interesting consequence of the democratization and decentralization of music production is the waning of Istanbul’s cultural dominance on Kurdish music in general; albums recorded in Adana are good examples of this. The simplicity of arrangement styles resembles the musical aesthetic of Kurdish popular music, released in the late 1980s and early 1990s. We can speculate that Ararat was inspired by the records of the late Ahmet Kaya, who used the bağlama as a both melodic and rhythmic instrument, supported by keyboards, guitar, and some synthesized rhythm-box percussion. The bağlama arpeggios resemble those of Kaya from the early 1990s. The primary goal of the album is to provide a setting for the poetic message of the lyrics. The great majority of Kurdish songs released in Turkey have been in Kurmancî, the most commonly spoken dialect of some thirty million Kurds worldwide, the majority of whom live in Turkey. Most Kurmancî speakers are Sunni Muslims while approximately 20 percent are Alevi. Zazakî (part of the Iranian group of languages which also includes Kurdish) is the language spoken by the residents of cities of Turkish Kurdistan, including Dersîm, Elazığ, and Diyarbakır. More than half of Zazakî speakers are Alevi, though not all identify as Kurds (Kaya 2011). Thomas Solomon (2011), in discussing the diversity of the immigrants from Turkey in Germany, eloquently summarizes the “dizzying array of multiple identities” among these communities: Even the category “Kurd” is not transparent, as it also includes significant overlapping sub-groups based on linguistic or sectarian identities, including Kurmancî speakers and Zazakî speakers (Kurmancî and Zazakî are not mutually intelligible languages); speakers of both of these languages may be Sunni Muslim or Alevi, and the latter of these may privilege their Alevi identity over their “Kurdishness”, feeling they have more in common with Turkish-speaking Alevis than with Kurmancî or Zazakî-speaking Sunnis. (Solomon 2011, 29) Another trend in Kurdish popular music has been the increasing use of hyper-localized dialects and other expressive forms of language. It is refreshing to hear songs with lyrics from the various Kurdish dialects and accents, such as those of the Kurmancî clusters of Maraş and Malatya. For example, the 2013 album Evîn, by Salman Suna, released by Kom, includes Kurdish and Turkish favorites of Maraş and Malatya Kurds, along with some Alevi sacred tunes known among the Kurdish Alevis of the region. The trend to record in Kurdish dialects and with regional accents has strengthened with the albums of Mikail Aslan, Shêxo, and Salman Suna, among others. Among recent releases, I should also mention Kerem Gerdenzerî’s Kurdish rock albums. Gerdenzerî is one of the founding members of Koma Wetan, a Kurdish rock group formed in 1979. His latest album, released by Kom, can be said to summarize the history of Kurdish rock.

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Figure 10.8 Album Cover of Mem Ararat’s Quling, Ewr û Baran, Kom Müzik, 2013

Concluding Remarks The peoples of Turkey are in the middle of a process of the increasing visibility and appreciation of diversity in the musical expressions of multiple ethnic groups including of course Kurdish. The role of music has expanded, creating space for dialogue with and understanding of the most populous other in Turkish society—the Kurdish minority and its plight (Aksoy 2014). Changes in attitude by the Turkish state towards the demands of Kurds in the late 2000s—where previously, attitudes were limited to the discourse of the “Kurdish Question”—have shown a shift away from State-sponsored violence and denial to the recognition of and engagement with Kurdish identity. In the last decade or so, popular

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musicians, artists, and politicians alike have advanced the search for ways to transcend the discourse of war and denial. Musical performance has been providing a forum where solidarity can be rehearsed and enacted. The Turkish context for Kurdish musicians and music-making is, I argue, in line with the global decentralization and democratization of the music industry, especially evident in the production of Kurdish popular music. This diversification is manifested in alternative media, political calls to action, in the ways people listen to and share music, and also in other content such as album artwork. There has been a noticeable increase in albums of international genres, such as hip-hop and world beat. Arguably, the most famous Kurdish female artist, Aynur, with her album Hevra, is emblematic of this diversification with Sony Music releasing a world music album of Kurdish flamenco. Thus, Kurdish musicians are embracing the changes in the industry and the political decentralization that has influenced those changes in the digital age. The overarching theme of Kurdish music in the modern era is one of diversification—in geographical locations of production, distribution, and consumption; in the use of multiple Kurdish dialects; in the incorporation of different styles; and in lyrical content beyond lyrics with a solely political purpose. Note 1.

On March 21, 2013, the imprisoned leader of the PKK, Abdullah Öcalan, released a statement including the remark, “Peace will come to Turkey under the flag of Islam”, invoking an ümmet (Ar. ummah, a Muslim community of believers) as the connection among Muslims belonging to the larger community of believers in Islam. The statement highlighted a shift—a diminishing secular common-denominator among Kurds. The attempt to reach a solution for the “Kurdish Question” by connecting the Sunni Muslim majorities of Kurds and Turks—unimaginable until the mid-2000s—could perhaps work if the alignment of the Turkish Republic were defined in solely religious terms. But, as one of the six core principles of Kemalism, laiklik (secularism) obligates (at least in theory) an inclusive secular nation embracing all ethnic and religious groups living in Turkey. By invoking the religious connection between the majority and the largest minority in country, some religio-political parties have increased the fears of other religious minorities in Turkey.

Bibliography Aksoy, Ozan E. 2014. “The Music and Multiple Identities of Kurdish Alevis from Turkey in Germany.” PhD diss., City University of New York. Beşikçi, İsmail. 1997. Türk tarih tezi, güneş dil teorisi ve kürt sorunu [A Turkish history thesis, the sun language theory and the Kurdish question]. Ankara: Yurt Yayınları. Güneş, Cengiz. 2012. The Kurdish National Movement in Turkey: From Protest to Resistance. New York: Routledge. Kaya, Mehmed. 2011. The Zaza Kurds of Turkey: A Middle Eastern Minority in a Globalised Society. London: IB Tauris Publishers. Solomon, Thomas. 2006. “Whose Hybridity? Whose Diaspora? Agency and Identity in Transnational Musics.” Paper presented at ICTM Colloquium at Wesleyan University, Middletown, CT, May 2006. ——. 2011. “Hardcore Muslims: Islamic Themes in Turkish Rap between Diaspora and Homeland.” In Muslim Rap, Halal Soaps, and Revolutionary Theater: Artistic Developments in the Muslim World, edited by Karin van Nieuwkerk, 27–54. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Stokes, Martin.1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. New York: Oxford University Press. van Bruinessen, Martin. 2000. Kurdish Ethno-Nationalism versus Nation-Building States: Collected Articles. Istanbul: Isis Press.

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Discography Ararat, Mem. Quling, ewr û baran [Crane, Cloud, and Rain]. Kom Müzik, 2013, compact disc. Arıç, Nizamettin, Dayê. Ses Plak, 1987, audiocassette. Aslan, Ahmet. Veyhê milaketu [Dance of Angels]. Kalan Müzik, 2007, compact disc. ——. ZerNkut. Kalan Müzik, 2008, compact disc. Aynur. Nûpel. Kalan Müzik, 2005, compact disc. ——. Rewend. Arista Music, 2010, compact disc. ——. Hevra [Together]. Sony Music, 2014, compact disc. Bajar. Nêzbe-Yaklaş. Kalan Müzik, 2009, compact disc. Baran, Ali. Teberîk. Baran Production, 2005, compact disc. Dilanar, Delil. Zerîyê. Mir Multimedia, 2009, compact disc. Diyar. Gûle neçe. Kom Müzik, 2004, compact disc. ——. Dema azadî [Time for Independence]. Kom Müzik CD 269, 2013, compact disc. Gerdenzerî, Kerem. Rojbaş Amed-Veger. Kom Müzik CD 265, 2013, compact disc. Haco, Ciwan. Dûrî. Ses Plak, 1994, audiocassette. Hîvron. Mem û Zîn/Welat [Mem and Zîn/The Homeland]. Kom Müzik, 2013, compact disc. Jiyan, Agirê. Adarê. Kom Müzik, 1996, compact disc. ——. Hêlîn. Kom Müzik CD 052, 1999, compact disc. Kahraman, Metin&Kemal. Deniz koydum adını. Hades, 1993, audiocassette. Karataş, Önder. Erê yarê. Aydın Müzik, 2014, compact disc. Kardeş Türküler. Doğu [East]. Kalan Müzik CD 141, 1999, compact disc. ——. Hemâvaz. Kalan Müzik, 2002, compact disc. Kawa. Ava evînê. Kom Müzik CD 088, 2001, compact disc. Kaya, Ahmet. Şarkılarım dağlara. Gam Müzik, 1994, compact disc. Koma Amed. Derguş. Kom Müzik CD 072, 1997, compact disc. Koma Azad. Şar. Kom Müzik, 2004, compact disc. Mamedova, Berfîn. Koçber [Immigrant]. Kom Müzik CD 280, 2014, compact disc. Perwer, Şivan. Ya star. Ses Plak CD 15, 1995, compact disc. ——. Roj û heyv. Ses Plak, 2000, compact disc. Rojda. Kezî-Stranên dengbejê jin [Bangs-Songs of Women Balladeers]. Kom Müzik CD 281, 2014, compact disc. Saltuk, Rahmi. Hoy narê. Saltuk Plak, 1989, audiocassette. Serhado. Bıhuşta xeyalan [Paradise of the Imagination]. Kom Müzik, 2013, compact disc. Shêxo. Denge Avê. Ses Plak, 2009, compact disc. Şîrvan, Rêzan. Ji te dur ım [I am far from You]. Aydın Müzik, 2014, compact disc. Suna, Salman. Evîn. Kom Müzik CD 268, 2013, compact disc.

11 Romanistanbul City, Music, and a Transformation Story Özgür Akgül

“Hey Your Your Your Your

young gypsies! first duty is to play your instrument. second duty is to learn a few peshrevs.1 third duty is to learn the notes. fourth duty is to treat your instrument like your lover.”2 (Akgül 2012)

To listen to music in the city, or to watch the city in its music . . . If the city in question is Istanbul, one has to see the inseparable nature of these actions. As a native, I felt something new in the musical world of Istanbul in the late 1990s and early 2000s. We began to hear more acoustic elements in instrumentation; more Eastern styles in mainstream pop arrangements, which made the overall sound more “organic” compared to the 1990s, when synthesized sounds were overwhelming. In a city with an elaborate acoustic music tradition, these were sounds and devices that had been unheard (or underground) for a while, but yet were still appreciated widely. Also, increasing virtuosity helped this organic texture, made up mainly—but not only—of varying oriental instrumentation, imbue the music with a different yet very familiar taste. It was clearly urban but also unseparated from traditional or rural music. The mutual and complicated relationship between the music market/recording industry and traditional music production in the last century underwent significant transformation when both recording and distribution technologies were enormously innovated by the digital revolution, while music itself was affected qualitatively. Due to the speed of digital networks, the interactivity of music, particularly in its production and distribution, accelerated on both temporal and regional scales. The current profile of musicians also helped reshape some traditions, with a broader vision and larger range of skills than before. Some changes in the music scene have been more audible in the new millennium. It was rather clear that the most important dynamic in the music workforce of Istanbul was Roma musicians, or, in a broader sense, Roma music networks. Historically, it is typical in Istanbul (and also generally in Turkey) that you encounter Roma musicians in a variety of musical contexts like weddings, military bands, restaurants, recording studios, and accompanyists; in brief, the whole music scene with its flexible but hierarchical divisions. An increasing number of instrumental solo-projects recorded by prominent musicians in

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the early 2000s was a sign of a different focus on musicianship than the music played by what are usually called “anonymous heroes.” Virtuosity, new ways of music articulation and a unique mix of different genres, were the main focus of my research on Roma musicians of the Istanbul music scene of the early 2000s, which later led to a book and a music documentary, both titled Romanistanbul. Romanistanbul was the search for a very common story, experienced by almost all Roma musicians within a very broad cultural network in countless diverse variations. Guided through stories of different Roma generations, an important part of the panorama of the sound of Istanbul was revealed, including not only craft and entertainment, but more importantly their way of life—the means of representing their proud identity. In this chapter, I wish to take a snapshot of the results of research to give an idea of the transformation of this unique workforce with its consequences for cultural identity. Romanistanbul can also be seen as a series of intersecting and distinctive portraits of musicians, some of which I will introduce here with some quotations from the film. Trying to avoid clichés about the “dark citizens”,3 my aim was to locate the discussion about Roma identity on the basis of professional organizations in interaction with the codes of traditional culture, while posing the question to what extent a socially-disadvantaged subculture can influence the culture of the majority, and how living in a city affects local culture at the same time. To make the analysis more practical, I will discuss some local and transnational music trends affecting the Istanbul scene from the 1960s onwards, expanding through the region and beyond. Transnational Music Transformation: Istanbul, a Potential Market for World Music In her introduction to my book Romanistanbul (2008), Sonia Seeman put the term “market” in the core of the discussion: The issue of market (“piyasa”) is extremely important for Turkish music in a wide variety of genres, and has broad implications for better understanding the contribution of Roma musical practices. Thus, to address Roman music in light of market economic structures require the examination of the overall context of the culture of the market. (Seeman 2008, 11) The term market, along with Seeman’s (2002) analytical approach in her PhD thesis, will therefore be the main focus for the underlying trends that I discuss here. First, we could glance at recent history and limit the scope of the discussion about the Istanbul music market to transnational music interactions, particularly those of the 2000s on the world music scene. The presence of musicians from Turkey on the international music scene began in earnest in the 1990s, and accelerated in importance in the new millennium. Numerous instrumental projects were recorded above the signature of Istanbul, which was well on its way to becoming a global metropolis. One, of course, that has always been an important node for international trade.

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For a brief definition of “world music” I will refer to ethnomusicologist Veit Erlmann, who writes: The term “world music” itself had emerged in the mid-1980’s, initially as little more than a handy term for music’s as vastly heterogeneous as lambada, Paul Simon’s Graceland, and Mory Kante’s Yéké Yéké. By 1988, however, “world beat”—as world music is more commonly known in the U.S.—was described by Newsweek magazine as the fastest growing sector of the international pop market (. . .) Since the invention of an industry that has deeply shaken by its own expansion in the unpredictability of the 1970s and the pre-MTV music market, the term has created a new formula for a new professional adventure and a symbol for a new global economic reality, which had attractive commercial prospects. (Erlmann 1996, 467) Erlmann (1996, 468) goes further: “World music can be defined as the new aesthetic form of the global imagination, a new way of understanding the historical moment in which we find ourselves and the complete reformation of cultural identities.” I should make a critical note about the world music scene here, which does not undermine the importance that it had for the Istanbul music scene as a catalyst. International festivals and cross-cultural productions, common to the global music market often have an orientalistic tendency to see the East as an exotic reserve to be promoted as such in the West. Predictably, many “touristic” projects were produced to catch the tail wind of world music popularity, and these had clear racist connotations based on familiar clichés. Noting this, I will exclude the ethical side, but emphasize the practical and intercultural aspects due to the limited space here. The development of the world music market in Turkey gave rise to increasing interaction between Turkish and international musicians. It was a kind of cultural export made for Western audiences, but with an increasing number of local followers as well. The world music market emerged with the aim of creating demand by mobilizing the audience of festivals and concerts. Founded in 1998, by Pozitif, Doublemoon Records, with slogans such as “oriental vibrations, the transition of East and West,” was one of the pioneer world music labels in Turkey. At the same time, the Babylon club, owned by Pozitif, gave a space to world music, especially world music fusions, and became an Istanbul trendsetter. Various styles, more or less traditional, and thereby the musical potential of Turkey, began to appear on the global market. Seeman (2002) discusses this process in the context of globalization saying that world music helped the rediscovery of Turkish music. Along with the popularity of world music, other professional instrumental projects began to be produced, many of which focused on the network of Roma musicians, who historically make up a substantial part of the music scene in Turkey, and provide a precious raw material for the world music market. We can note that it is a prevalent practice in this market to present virtuosity as an expression of Roma identity. This focus on Roma musicians in world music drew on the professional network mentioned above, which has strong roots

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in traditional culture (both rural and urban). This network is very dynamic and flexible in its response to the demands of a rapidly-growing music market. Istanbul’s music potential grew richer in its own unique style during the 2000s, a style that is now well-known outside Turkey as well. This was partly because of the world music scene, which became part of the market more directly and voluminously than previously. But for sure, this was not a phenomenon created by world music. The main subject of these parallel processes was a specific workforce (in an informal professional organization) that arose in the second half of the twentieth century in Istanbul called “the anonymous heroes.” This took the form of a large, dynamic and diverse network (especially including Roma musicians from the western and southern regions), with its roots in the rural and increasingly the urban music scenes (especially following the rapid growth in Turkey’s music market from the 1960s onwards, arabesk being at the core of this growth). Now we can look a little back in Turkey’s musical history in order to broaden our scope. Arabesk Revisited: An Example of Local Modernity? Throughout the history of the music market in Turkey, socioeconomic circumstances, market conditions, and technological innovations have changed both scene and styles. With increasing virtuosity and professional systematization came new performance styles and more qualified musicians with greater opportunities in terms of instrumentation. In the 2000s, especially, Istanbul was at the heart of the development of an organic and genuine urban sound. Istanbul’s music scene in the early 2000s can be seen as the result of the transformation of the city’s earlier styles, accelerating from the 1960s onwards. Western rock ’n’ roll and big-band jazz from the 1960s on has been an important source of inspiration for the live music and recording scenes, which quite naturally fused elements of both East and West. Classical Ottoman music and Anatolian folk music, on the other hand, were relatively isolated and static. The boom came with arabesk, with its peak in the mid 1970s. This was also the time when the music cassette became important becoming the primary medium of the 1980s, via the growth of arabesk. By the turn of the century, arabesk was a mature urban style cantered around the network I describe above. A nearly 40-year-old tradition with largely acoustic orchestration and a massive audience yet seen as inferior until the 2000s by the Western-oriented high culture of Turkey. Meral Özbek (1991), Martin Stokes (1992), Orhan Tekelioğlu (2006) along with some other academicians developed elaborate theories based on Turkey’s changing social structure with mass movement from rural to urban areas from the 1960s on, discovering the immanent meanings of arabesk for its enthusiastic audience. It would be enough for this paper to say that arabesk, with its organic roots in Anatolian and Middle Eastern styles—both rural and urban—has given rise to a deep pool of contemporary musicians of different generations and local traditions.4 The evolving music scene in Istanbul needed musicians and arrangers with an advanced level interpretative skills and virtuosity. The music potential realised itself according to the conditions of the time, offering an advanced music service and redefining the horizons of the scene.

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A growing number of local performers migrated to Istanbul attracted by the increasing demand for literate musicians to work in recording studios. From the characteristic player at village marriages (çalgıcı), we can now speak of a transformation constructing the musical forms of urban interpretation and forming a unique music scene in Istanbul in relationship with local traditions. Alla Turca string ensembles are a very important aspect of arabesk. This symbolic orchestral tool, originally developed in the West, made for a common language throughout the Middle East. A particular dialect of this language arose in Istanbul, central to the sound of arabesk. Inspired by urban Arabic music, mainly centered on Egypt, the Eastern style of string orchestras were integral to the aesthetics of the “East.” Thus arabesk can be seen as a spontaneous meeting of East and West, a singular example of a local modernity. The process that began with the use of a few violins in the arrangements developed into large string ensembles working like musicians’ agencies. In this context, the 1970s represent the orientation of most violinists from traditional to orchestral performance. Ensemble performances in the studio were systematized and perfected, and this dynamic shaped the path that led to today’s scene. Today, we can speak of a handful of professional string ensembles in Istanbul, in addition to many smaller, semi-professional ones, overwhelmingly made up of Roma musicians. These string orchestras are serving the Istanbul music market as well as many Middle Eastern countries in various musical contexts. This development is linked to the stronger integration of Roma musicians into arabesk during the 1970s. With numerous albums recorded in different popular styles from the 1960s onwards, the traditions mentioned above began to melt into each other, and, starting with the 2000s, arabesk infiltrated into the pop mainstream via this new workforce, predominant in performance, orchestration and arrangements. Now, I want to narrow the scope again to show the other parallel trend of the musical transformation discussed here: The featured actors, the Roma community as the propulsive force of the music market. Publicizing Anonymous Heroes The foldings in the layers of music via large interactions between networks sometimes tend to break the logic of time and space (as with Istanbul, in the early 2000s). The crossing of different parallel trends manifests the intersection of cultural and commercial networks, at both local and transnational levels. The local scenes, which could be labelled the periphery, fed and integrated into the core—Istanbul—thanks to the newly-acquired flair of musicians. The formation of informal music-networks among Roma musicians supported this process as a constituent party. With the expansion of the recording industry after 1960, Roma musicians gained an important position in the Istanbul market. Roman Oyun Havası (Roma Dance Tunes) appeared as a genre as a development of the Istanbul-centered recording industry, while its rural counterpart also remained in demand, especially in the Marmara and Aegean regions. Seeman (2002, 321) puts it thus: “With mass dissemination of a local genre, now called ‘Roman Oyun Havası’, to other Turkish regions, distinct musical expression was made possible for other Turkish Roman communities outside of Thrace.”

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Cassettes of Roman Oyun Havası were produced at low cost and this resulted in new forms of performance and also in a decided inclination towards studio recording for rural Roma musicians at the same time (ibid). Parallel to this process, Roma musicians began to organize themselves in the popular music market, mainly around arabesk, the heart of the market in the 1970s. The decades until the 2000s were the time when the musical layers proceeded to meshi in various zones: Rural and urban, local and global. The Istanbul portfolio of musicians from the turn of the century on represents both choice and variety of talented musicians— a blessing for producers and arrangers as well as the audience, and we began to know some of the anonymous workforce, taking the tradition handed down to them and taking it further. The first star of this scene, an Istanbul-based soloist who has been popular in the mainstream for a long time, is Hüsnü Şenlendirici. Beside his musical projects and his interpretative technique, he has made a significant contribution to the scene with his signature clarinet-playing fusing shining styles both from Turkey and its musical neighbourhood. He is a younger peer of prominent Turco-Roma clarinetists, innovators in their time, like Mustafa Kandıralı and Şükrü Tunar. Coming from the Aegean town of Bergama, noted for the local way of playing brass instruments as well as the typical Roma wedding-band in Turkey which includes G-clarinet, violin, darbuka, oud, etc., Şenlendirici (often referred to just by his first name) chose the clarinet as his main instrument and intensively developed his technique at weddings. After moving to Istanbul, he played in Kibariye’s orchestra at the age of 13. This was the first major goal on the road to a professional career. He broadened his musical horizons playing at many festivals, in which he played with the orchestra of his father, a trumpet virtuoso, Ergün Şenlendirici. With his band Laço Tayfa, Hüsnü recorded his first album Bergama Gaydası for Doublemoon, the most internationally well-known Turkish world music, oriental fusion, and jazz label. After two albums with Laço Tayfa, Şenlendirici made a solo album called Hüsn-ü Klarnet (a.k.a The Joy of Clarinet). It was a cornerstone for the organic sound of Istanbul in the 2000s. The album was a collective production of elite music makers: Orhan Şallıel, İsmail Tunçbilek, Zafer Haznedar, and Ceyhun Çelikten arranged the album, and players included the Gündem String Orchestra, Mehmet and Hamdi Akatay on percussion, Hasan Gözetlik on trombone, as well as many other virtuosos from Istanbul’s rich music scene. Şenlendirici is a role model for young Roma musicians, many of whom imitatate his style. They adapted quickly to the idea that there was an option beyond playing in studios. In 2007, together with İsmail Tunçbilek and Aytaç Doğan, he founded Taksim Trio, who continue to perform around the world, playing their highly individual blend ofTurkish acoustic styles. They have played with musicians like Carlos Benavent, Dorantes, Zakir Hussain, and Dhafer Youssef. When I was at the Womex world music expo in 2012 for the screening of my documentary Romanistanbul, I heard from many people how remarkable the Taksim Trio concert was at Womex in Seville, 2007. Another exceptional figure, İsmail Tunçbilek, as well as being one of Taksim Trio, is a bağlama5 (acoustic and electric) virtuoso, master of many styles, and is also a music producer and director.

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Tunçbilek comes from Bursa. The Roma quarter where he was born has been pulled down. At the beginning of his career, he played as an accompanist to Turkey’s most famous arabesk singer, İbrahim Tatlıses. Later he worked as producer for several singers and the music director of many albums. His journey brought him to Egypt where he “cleansed his soul” and made further explorations arranging and playing on many albums for release in the Middle East, and then to Spain, where he played with Carlos Benavent and some Flamenco musicians. Besides his relationship with the Western world music scene via Taksim Trio, he is renowned in many Middle Eastern and North African countries as a producer and performer. His elaborate artisanship, especially in string arrangements, and his bağlama narratives, ensure a continuous demand from the Arabic world. He conceives his musical palette in a simple and natural way, which also refers to his cultural identity: I actually know Indian style. I know flamenco too. I know Turkish music anyway. And Arabic music . . . I know some world music. The best thing is being able to put them altogether and making your own music. All this already exists and everybody does it. For example, I am a Gypsy but I don’t do Gypsy music. Do I not like it? I love it. But I haven’t got round to it. When we say gypsy music, we think about 9/8 rhythms. We have that too but it’s not all of it. This [his composition playing in the background] is also Gypsy music . . . It is music composed by a Gypsy. What is the actual Gypsy music? (Akgül 2012) Orhan Şallıel, another figure worthy of attention, grew up in a venerable, Istanbul, musical family. After finishing his formal Western music education, he moved abroad, building a career as a composer and conductor. He is an extreme case of the transformation I describe here. A son of the first generation of today’s music workforce and the composer of numerous popular songs, he lived relatively isolated from the traditional Roma music scene in Istanbul. He says that he discovered classical Ottoman and Turkish music and his father’s musical tradition when he was abroad, and then became reintroduced to his home culture when he returned to Istanbul in the early 2000s. He optimistically expresses the trans-generational social discomfort of Roma immanent in the community’s common memory: We couldn’t say we were Roma. If my dad saw me saying that in this film, he’d be very upset, maybe . . . [. . .] You see a CD. Most of the musicians you listen to are Roma. There is always a band behind a singer. And that band almost always consists of the same people. People are becoming aware of this. The musicians taking the music industry one step further are always either Roma, related to Roma or have had something to do with Roma . . . Therefore we are relieved, as well as others. Certain institutions are still prejudiced, like the State, in their approach . . . But we will overcome that as well. (Akgül 2012)

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Şallıel’s experience with Hüsnü Şenlendirici supplies another reflection on the musical potential of Istanbul: I worked with Hüsnü in a project of mine and I noticed that he and his team approached music just like AA class Western-classical musicians. In some occasions they are even more respectful. I said to myself these guys were brought up in the neighborhood. They had no formal music education. The others were put into music school before they could enjoy their childhood. They were forced into playing the violin or piano etc. How can these guys intersect? With such different career paths, yet their approach to music, their respect, their love and ethics are the same. It was very interesting. (Akgül 2012) I asked Şallıel what was the motivation and dynamics behind this virtuoso generation. His answer was simple and touching: “Because they know that’s the way out. If you are a minority in a country and you need to earn a position where you’ll be respected and applauded—that’s the stage” (Akgül 2012). Before concluding, I would like to write some words about the social and political aspects of Roma identity to complement this musical picture. As in many countries, the Roma face discrimination in Turkey. In the era of capitalistic modernization, with diminishing demand for artisanship and crafts, Roma society began to lose its social function. The early 2000s also saw the forced migration of Roma communities from the city center due to the redevelopment of some of their districts, including the oldest one—Sulukule. Exceptions survived at a minimal level, like flower-sellers and garbage recyclers, and some had better chances, like musicians. Conclusion The background to the story summarized here is the struggle of the Roma against discrimination through music, with musicians as the the must publicly visible figures of this struggle to achieve esteem and a valued reputation for Roma society. With the expansion of the recording industry after 1960, Roma musicians gained an essential position in Turkey’s music scene. Parallel to this process, Roma musicians began to organize in the popular music market. From playing village weddings to establishing string orchestras and being music directors and studio musicians, they experienced dramatic changes in their economic level and their social acceptance. And of course, musically, by blending urban and rural music in a professional and distinctive way, Roma musicians shaped the current scene and contributed to Istanbul’s cultural authenticity. The changes in form have run parallel with the redefinition of Roma musicians in terms of their virtuosity, thereby transforming Roma identity through musical innovation. The growing number of projects produced by Roma musicians can be seen as part of the transformation of the perfunctory term çalgıcı (musician). Rather than an insular ethnicity, Roma identity presents itself as a major cultural reference-point, and the substance of an extensive network as well as a respected professional tradition that has successfully renewed itself.

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Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

An Ottoman court music form, roughly equivalent to a prelude or overture. A 12-year-old kid from the Roma district Dolapdere’s manifesto for being a musician (quoted from the documentary Romanistanbul. For more information: www.facebook.com/Romanistanbul). A common Turkish derogatory term used about Roma. The redefinition of arabesk in the 2000s stretched through the Middle East, the Balkan, and parts of the Caucasus, and deserves to be the topic of further analysis. A family of Anatolian stringed folk instruments, also often known as the saz.

Bibliography Akgül, Özgür. 2008. Romanistanbul: Şehir, müzik ve bir dönüşüm öyküsü [Romanistanbul: City, music and a transformation story]. Istanbul: Punto. Erlmann, Veit. 1996. “The Aesthetics of the Global Imagination: Reflections on World Music in the 1990s.” Public Culture 8: 467–487. University of Chicago. Özbek, Meral. 1991. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular Culture and the Arabesque of Orhan Gencebay]. Istanbul: İletişim. Seeman, Sonia Tamar. 2002. “You’re Roman! Music and Identity in Turkish Roman Communities.” PhD diss., University of California. ——. 2008. “Sunuş.” [Introduction] Romanistanbul: Şehir, müzik ve bir dönüşüm öyküsü [Romanistanbul: City, music and a transformation story]. By Ozgür Akgül. Istanbul: Punto. Stokes, Martin. 1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tekelioğlu, Orhan. 2006. Pop yazılar: Varoştan merkeze yürüyen ‘halk zevki’ [Writing about pop: Walking from the suburbs to the centre ‘people’s pleasure’]. Istanbul: Telos.

Filmography Akgül, Özgür (director). Romanistanbul. Sarmaşık Sanatlar, 2012.

Discography Laço Tayfa. Bergama gaydası. Doublemoon Records, 2000, compact disc. Şenlendirici, Hüsnü. Hüsn-ü klarnet. Doublemoon Records, 2005, compact disc. Taksim Trio. Biçare [Wretched]. Doublemoon Records, 2007, compact disc.

PART

IV

Genres

Part 4 presents chapters focusing on arabesk, folk music, and extreme metal within the scope of popular music practices in Turkey. We include a reconsideration of arabesk which remains a hot topic in popular music studies in Turkey, a discussion about Turkey’s folk musics, of course among the main sources of popular music, and a case study about extreme metal which presents a strong example of how global and local scenes interact. We will also show something of the representative power of these genres. The first chapter, “Arabesk: Looking at the history of popular meanings and feelings in Turkey” by Betül Yarar, presents a comprehensive discussion of arabesk, which covers its early political, cultural, and historical sources together with different typologies of the genre according to their orientations, such as Turkish art music, Turkish folk, oriental music, Western music, and ortada (“in-between music”). Yarar, with a background in sociology, considers the topic within Stuart Hall’s theory of hegemony, considering theoretical approaches and concepts from a wide range of sources, such as Bob Jessop, Lawrence Grossberg, Julia Kristeva, Michel de Certeau, and Mikhail Bakhtin. Thereby, Yarar focuses on the processes where arabesk became transformed from a reaction of popular classes against hegemonic cultural forms to a form favored by the dominant classes. The next chapter, “The rise of a folk instrument in Turkish popular music: The Mey” by Songül Karahasanoğlu, presents a folk instrument, the mey and its roles in Turkish popular music. Karahasanoğlu considers the history of the mey in comparison with similar instruments such as the balaban and duduk from neighboring regions. Therefore, the chapter not only discusses the rise of the mey in popular music, but also that of the balaban and duduk, especially within world music. Karahasanoğlu notes that these instruments could also all be played by the same musicians according to changing demand and context. The last chapter of this section, “Global connectivity and the Izmir extreme-metal scene” by Aykut Çerezcioglu, presents a case study about extreme metal in one of Turkey’s largest cities. Çerezcioglu discusses this within the context of globalization applying the concepts of Arjun Appadurai’s “scapes of global cultural flows” and John Tomlison’s “complex connectivity.” Based on ethnograhic material, the chapter focuses on the history of the scene in Izmir and its transformation in relation with local and global processes.

12

Arab e s k

Looking at the History of Popular Meanings and Feelings in Turkey Betül Yarar

Introduction Although there has been an increasing sociological interest in social transformation in Turkey during the 1980s, most studies during the 1990s mainly focused on its economic and/or political aspects. Only a few writers have emphasized the importance of popular culture for socio-cultural, political, and historical studies.1 During the 2000s, the number of academic works on popular culture, and specifically on arabesk, further increased while their general theoretical frameworks changed.2 As far as studies on arabesk are concerned, while musicology, ethnomusicology, and reception theory have come into play,3 the approach of cultural studies, focusing mainly on the musical and textual structure of songs, continued to be effective. The approach developed and extended under the impact of postmodern and poststructuralist theories and criticism.4 Accordingly, maintaining a cultural studies approach while paying heed to debates, which have evolved around and within it, this paper aims to further develop a critical sociohistorical perspective on the relationship between politics and popular culture by looking at these issues in the context of the history of modernization in Turkey since the early Republican period. The key theoretical concept relating these two distinct aspects of modernization (i.e. popular culture and politics)5 is that of “hegemony.” As used by leading neo-Gramscian scholars, it is employed to explain the basic socio-historical dynamics of social transformation within the context of political struggle for hegemony, and to connect cultural issues to the political aspects of social transformation (Gramsci 1971, 1985; Hall 1985; Laclau and Mouffe 1985). For these theorists, the question of constituting social consent through political leadership is the main aspect of hegemony for sustaining the relationship between politics and popular culture. Another aspect is the constitution of a relatively stable social formation or a historical bloc between various domains of practices or between state, economy, and society (Jessop 1990). The former issue emphasizes the ideological aspect, while the latter recognizes the role of institutional consolidation of hegemony through sedimentation of a hegemonic social project into various institutional arrangements, which facilitate a stable

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social basis for capitalist production. In analyzing mechanisms that construct patterns of relationship between politics and popular culture, Foucauldian analysis of microforms for governing civil-societal domains, such as music (Foucault 1972, 1976, 1988, 1990), is used together with a neo-Gramscian approach linked with Jessop’s (1990) strategic-relational approach. “Since I consider not only the ‘meaning’, but also ‘pleasure’ (which concerns the ‘affect’ of popular culture as a site of political struggle), I concentrate on mechanisms other than signification practices” (Grossberg 1992, 260). This is what Grossberg (1992, 1997) calls “mood politics.” Finally, to expand our understanding of popular cultural forms and practices, we take into consideration the views of other theorists, such as Kristeva (1986a, 1986b, 1989a, 1989b), de Certeau (1984), and Bakhtin (1984),6 all of whom investigate popular culture by relating it to notions of time, space, pleasure, passion, mood, affect, memory, etc. Defining National Identity and National Music by Excluding Popular Culture As is generally known, Kemalist cultural reforms were implemented from above in order to transform the old social formation on the basis of modern and Western norms of social governance. This top-down approach from the new ruling-class to society as a whole imprinted all the cultural policies applied from the founding years of the Republic. Hence, in the first few decades, the economic and cultural spheres had been overdetermined by the political realm, turning “culture” into a field of State political practices. The main issue underlying the debates on “culture” was to find or construct an identity upon which to build the Turkish nation-state with a unified culture (Üstel 1994, 41). In the field of music, modernization had started long before the Kemalist period and drove the binary distinction between Palace and Anatolian folk music. However, during the Tanzimat era (the 1839–1876 period of political reforms by the Ottoman state), when modern music emerged through borrowing from the West, this distinction was replaced with the antagonism between traditional and modern music, or between alaturka (traditional Turkish) and alafranga (European) music in popular expression of the terms (Aksoy 1985). Later, under the impact of the Kemalist cultural project, the tension and dichotomy between ataturka and alafranga became stronger, since national culture was defined in opposition to the Ottoman music heritage of deeply rooted varieties and forms. Later, the same opposition was conceptualized with terms like “monophonic” as opposed to “polyphonic” (Tekelioğlu 1997; Tura 1985). In the second half of the 1920s, musicians and the political elite began a quest for new forms that would support the allotted role of music in the nation-building process. The new genre should preferably reflect a national identity based on “Turkism” and cover as large a part of the population as possible. Since genres other than folk music symbolized the old regime, the new rulers tended to refer more to the tradition of Anatolian peasants— or folk music—as the only significant genre that had not been appropriated by the Ottoman state in their ideological struggle against the fuedal system.7 On the basis of Kemalist nationalism, the music elites of the new regime attempted to articulate the “primitive” but “intimate” folk music of the people with “advanced” but “artificial” Western art music

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(Üstel 1994, 48). This invented form of “traditional music”8 was called milli musiki (national music), of which Turkish opera and operetta was the new form (Behar 1985, 1236). The political and cultural elite of the new regime not only attempted to eliminate all the varieties of Ottoman music (the main ones were Classical Turkish music and religious music) from public life, but also attacked any other form which resembled them (such as the popular music genres of the Ottoman period that derived from them). For nationalist intellectuals and State bureaucrats, classical Turkish music, despite being the dominant form of the Ottoman court circle and having a major impact on many other later-constructed genres such as the fantazi (fantasy) form of Turkish art music, was considered to be not Turkish enough.9 Institutional means of preventing the performance of Turkish classical or Turkish art music were various, such as abolishing the tarikats (the Sufi orders, which were art music patrons), closing the Oriental (Eastern)-music section of the Darü’l-Elhan conservatory (Istanbul) and banning classical Turkish music from the radio.10 While not only opera, but also elegant and light Western music were played on the radio and at public places and events, such as on the ships of the Turkish Maritime Lines and at government-sponsored ballroom-dances (Tekelioğlu 1997, 2). In the 1950s, demographic movements and social mobility reached a new phase in parallel with economic, political, and social developments and rapid urbanization. Social mobility took the form of movement from rural to urban areas with a new class of wealthy rural migrants who had profited from the Menderes era and were seeking to exploit opportunities in the cities. In the same period, under the impact of the liberal economic strategy of the governing Democratic Party, entertainment culture began expanding further thanks to entrepreneurs rather than the State. Places like the gazino (a type of café offering food, drink, and music) became central to this kind of leisure. In such places, art music found its audience and became very popular.11 Thus, unlike the music reforms of the 1930s, the emerging music industry popularized Turkish art music and filled the gap between what people wanted and the music entertainment provided by official organizations, which was far from satisfying popular demand (Üstel 1994, 7). After the ban imposed on the radio broadcasting of Turkish art music in 1934, the spontaneous and immediate reaction of people was to tune their radios to Arab, or more specifically, Egyptian radio stations (mainly Cairo Radio) (Tura 1985). This cultural interaction between Arab culture and Turkey continued during the liberal economic policy period of the 1950s via music films imported from Egypt and other Arab countries. Popular films of this period were also coming from India and the USA which became sources of new cultural forms and trends in Turkey (Stokes 1992a, 95). However, Turkish film directors and musicians soon began to develop their own styles Cultural interaction with the United States was not only through films, but also through musical instruments and techniques. To trace the influence of the USA, one can look at Türk Hafif Batı Müziği or Türk Hafif Müziği (Turkish light Western music or Turkish light music), which emerged in the late 1950s with Turkish pop stars singing Western pop songs. These culturally elite styles, fostered by modernists, who were against mass-popular forms, later developed further with the translation of such songs into Turkish, or with new

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Turkish songs written with the same rules and techniques.12 Traditionalists viewed with suspicion both the research and experiments of Western-minded musicians at the State conservatory and the work of “new age” musicians oriented to the demands of the market. And so another dichotomized distinction between categories of music, such as piyasa müziği (market music) as opposed to art music, was added to the old division between formal (polyphonic and Western) and traditional (monophonic and non-Western) music. The Emergence of Arabesk as the Music of Popular Culture The failure of the liberal economic program of the center-right government led to a swing to the left based on an authoritarian state, which began to rise in the 1960s. The liberal 1961 constitution also allowed various political parties to be established and the organization of trade union movements to be developed during the late 1960s and early 1970s. All of these meant the politicization of the popular classes in conformity with the basic left-wing principles. Arabesk emerged as the music of popular culture in the late 1960s, coinciding with the second wave of labor migration, which led to the phenomenon of gecekondu (“nightcondos”—unauthorized shanty-houses) and rapid population growth, particularly in major cities such as Istanbul. As a synthesis between pre-existing styles, arabesk developed, as with other popular styles mentioned earlier, in the culture of gazinos, which was disseminated more widely by the increasingly available technologies of mass culture. Labeled arabesk by the urban elite (i.e. intellectuals, musicans, and media), it became the first native pop music of Turkey (Şenyapılı 1981, 54; Tekelioğlu 1995). In a short period of time it was disseminated and popularized, mainly in urban areas, despite being ignored and condemned by the State broadcasting service. According to Behar, arabesk has its roots in the cultural milieu of the 1930s and its development is related to the cultural gap arising from the centralist cultural reforms of the Kemalist government in the 1920s and 1930s (Behar 1988, 1989; Karakayalı 1995). For instance, Orhan Gencebay, the first and greatest star and producer of arabesk, was dissatisfied with the State-endorsed, Western-influenced, national art music and urbanized folk music broadcasting on national radio and decided to experiment and develop a syncretic musical style that would draw on local and foreign styles (Markoff 1994, 229). As many musicologists and musicians point out, arabesk is a hybrid form, which syntheses preceding popular forms with modern once. With this character, it moved beyond the music codes of both traditionalists and modernists. Contrary to what they propounded, arabesk was a product of the market, in character neither traditional nor Western. It was not bound by one genre, but rather a synthesis drawing on what already existed. Thus, arabesk is a revival of old traditions in a contemporary manner, forming a new style in which those traditions can be articulated and fused; it is a bricolage emerging from its cultural context. Gencebay provides five different typologies for arabesk. These are differentiated as follows: 1) Arabesk orientated towards Turkish art music, 2) arabesk orientated towards Turkish folk music, 3) arabesk orientated towards Oriental music, 4) arabesk orientated towards Western music and 5) ortada (the area in between). Among these five variations that which

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makes Gencebay’s arabesk special, and represents his music most, is ortada (Özbek 1991, 178). It is here that the ambivalent or hybrid character of arabesk reaches its highest and most mature form. A standard arabesk orchestra comprises not only Arabian instruments, but also Anatolian folk instruments, as well as those associated with Turkish art music, Western pop and classical, and even Gypsy music (Stokes 2010). The narrative structure of the texts for Gencebay’s arabesk also relies on popular tradition. That is what constitutes—using Kristeva’s terms—its regenerative power and dialogic relationship to its audience. It is also hybrid in the poetic quality of the texts: Folk poetry and songs; Tasavvuf Edebiyatı (Sufi or Turkish mystical literature); Divan Şiiri or Divan Edebiyatı (the classical school of poetic or narrative literature) (Özbek 1991). As with these genres, love is the main theme or motif around which other elements are constructed in arabesk as well. However, in contrast to folk poems where the meaning of love is more concrete and earthly, the theme of love tends to the abstract in arabesk as in Divan Edebiyatı, which dates to before the Tanzimat period. The most important theme not only of arabesk but also all other popular music genres in Turkey, including those that arose either before or after arabesk (Stokes 2010), is love. But how “divine love” in the Sufi tradition is connected to “prosaic love” conception in arabesk is another issue (Duben 2011). Even though the texts can be read as being about being in love with someone in the literal sense, they can also be read as being about a “cathartic state of being” where nothing but love matters (Stokes 1992b; Dönmez 2011). In both its musical and textual structures, arabesk seems to have the capacity for articulating elements from different cultures, genres, and traditions. Consequently, it is also possible to call it a form and space of “cultural democracy.” It also represents simultaneously a form for modernization and the national identity both for the people and by the people; and here it not only differs from, but also opposes the official modernization project and proposed national identity as was promoted and represented through Western music forms (opera and pop) broadcast by Turkish State radio. The Transformation of Arabesk into Various Sub-Genres Having emerged as a response to the “hegemonic crisis” of the 1970s in Turkey, the New Right rose on the failures of past governments to provide an alternative, which could reconcile conflicting interest groups. At the beginning of the New Right’s long struggle for power, Turgut Özal (the first leader of the Motherland Party [ANAP]) and Tayyip Erdoğan (the leader of the Justice and Development Party [AKP]) played the key roles in appealing to people, appropriating social credits from different sections of society, for the New Right’s hegemonic neoliberal and neoconservative project. In various ways the new regime resembled its Western predecessors—Thatcherism and Reaganism. Hall conceptualizes Thatcherism as “authoritarian populism” (Hall 1988; Jessop et al. 1988). Compared to classical Fascism, “authoritarian populism” has the capacity to mobilize the masses around the project of a small/large state. For Hall, in contrast to the ideological consensus of the 1960s and 1970s, Thatcherism, for instance, achieves this by fostering discontent with the old system by translating the new project into the popular languages.

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Hall underlines the success of Thatcherism in dismantling the ideological basis of the old system. In a polarized and oppositional neoliberal system, social differences are not regarded as problematic, but as means of controlling people’s passions and volitions. The principle at work is not the passive subordination of the subaltern to the dominant, rather it is “(t)heir subordinate relationship to the ruling bloc is . . . an active, empowered one, even to the point where they can redefine and restructure the hegemonic project itself” (Grossberg 1992, 27). In Turkey, the issue is the New Right’s attempt to gain hegemony against the preceding project of social democracy as well as the Kemalist project of modernism by replacing them with a new moral and structural foundation based on neoliberal and neoconservative rationales.13 Here, popular culture is an important sphere of maneuver in constructing a new ideological and cultural base for this. In the case of the New Right there has been no need to substitute social formation with a new consensus; social fragmentation started to be traced in growing tension between various communities and lifestyles within cities or between regions (Keyder and Öncü 1994; Keyder 2005), with sedimented forms of socioeconomic inequalities cutting across class, ethnic, religious, and regional differences. During the 1980s, neoliberal economic policy played an important part in the expansion and reorganization of the culture industry. Under the impact of concerted attacks of intellectuals and politicians of the new right on the model of the interventionist state, the state strategy was transformed. The place and function of other agents in civil society was widened in tandem with the increasing power of the bourgeoisie, who became part of building a different form of civil society. Thus, much of the mass media turned into agencies for influencing public opinion. Under the aegis of the ANAP, private media-channels were established in increasing numbers. Other institutionally organized actors of the culture industry (such as music producers) also participated in this process of social transformation. In a Foucauldian sense, we can say that since the 1980s the machine of social ordering has expanded with the inclusion of market forces—alongside the State apparatus—coming into play in all spheres of social life. In the 1980s the government’s cultural policy, based on the recognition of Ottoman history and culture as the national heritage and the true cultural tradition, targeted the RPP’s modernization project for its elitism and statism. One of the main ideas was a return to Islamic values (Stokes 1992a). This policy also glorified the Ottoman past and the music associated with it, Turkish art music (Akman, 1988).14 The cultural policy of the State started to be indifferent to and discourage the development of polyphonic Western music for purely ideological reasons. Political leaders of the New Right were very successful in articulating or transforming popular sentiments and traditions into their own political discourse. They proposed populist political styles distinct from those of previous leaders, associated with the political orthodoxy and cultural elitism of the Kemalist regime. Especially, Özal was the first leader who explicitly announced himself to be a fan of Fenerbahçe (one of the most popular soccer teams) and a listener of all sorts of Turkish music, including arabesk. The close involvement of Özal and his family with several arabesk stars formed part of his populist approach.15 Furthermore, the 1980s was the first time when arabesk was used in an electoral campaign of the ANAP.16 In the same period, the regulations and restrictions

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of the Censorship Commission of the Radio-Television Institution of Turkey (TRT) were changed, and the previously forbidden style of arabesk was allowed to be broadcast on TRT-channels.17 As Özal stated, economic liberalism was very much connected to the government’s cultural populism: With respect to the stage we have achieved now, what we need are liberal programs, which are endearing to the people. Without any hesitation I would say that arabesk must be broadcast by the TRT. There is no handicap in broadcasting arabesk music . . . To complain about it, despite its appeal to the people, means acting against what the people want. (quoted in Özbek 1991, 138) On the other hand, a most interesting and controversial attempt of the government was to reform arabesk. At the first Music Congress in Istanbul in February 1989, the Minister of Culture and Tourism, Mustafa Tınaz Titiz, stated the government’s affirmation of acısız arabesk—arabesk with the grief removed18—as opposed to arabesk songs, which were considered “pessimistic” and “fatalistic.” The ANAP’s attempt to reform popular culture is a sign of its “elitist populism” (Grossberg 1992) or its desire to appropriate arabesk for its own ends through its selective articulation. As mentioned above, a basic principle of the Özalist project was its neoliberal discourse, which was based on enterprise culture and led the government to open popular culture to market forces. As part of this, the government also attempted to re-regulate the music industry. This led to the government and these organizations becoming closer.19 For instance, issues affecting music consumption were the levy on tapes and the copyright law aimed at stopping rampant cassette piracy. Growing consumer demand and supply increased the need to control and organize the music industry; and thus new regulations were introduced during this period (Aksoy and Şahin 1993). Also, with a new economic policy based on an export-oriented free-market economy, the music market was transformed by new technological developments, most of which were imported.20 New musical instruments and recording technologies had a major impact on the capacity, speed, and quality of music production. The number of recording companies rapidly increased during the second half of the 1980s.21 Under the impact of these developments in the 1980s, arabesk, with its new sub-styles, stars, and audiences, became a large sector in Turkey. This had an important impact on the production and, in turn, on the technical structures of arabesk songs. An important subject for discussion is the degree to which arabesk lost its authenticity through standardization. Yet, more importantly, with the expansion of the music market and its more inclusive approach to all popular genres including arabesk, the anti-arabesk elite discourse was marginalized. These changes also accelerated the fragmentation of the genre. The profitoriented and populist rationales of producers, as well as their techniques and strategies for producing, packaging, and marketing, had also differentiated and multiplied leading to increasing diversity in urban areas. This was reflected through the populist approach of music producers, who could now satisfy the demands for different forms of arabesk by different social groups.

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First of all, fragmentation obligees recording companies to develop flexible production to cater for the market demands of a more fragmented social order (Tomlinson 1990, 4). However, as well stated by Tomlinson, record companies constantly seek not only to respond to an identifiable consumer profile, but also to redirect it and sometimes shape it anew. In their mutual transformation, the culture industry, fed by the feedback of its own social context, has also transformed these social groups into consumers with distinct demands and lifestyles. All this led the most popular Turkish art and pop singers to start singing their songs in an arabesk style or to sing arabesk songs trying to make new arabesk hits. While the power of arabesk superseded other styles, arabesk sub-genres began to emerge, almost turning into distinct categories of their own: Folk arabesk (İbrahim Tatlıses, Küçük Emrah, Ceylan, Ferdi Tayfur), taverna (nightclub) (Nejat Alp, Cengiz Kurdoğlu, Ümit Besen, Ferdi Özbeğen), sanat müziği ağırlıklı arabesk (Turkish art-style arabesk—sometimes called fantazi arabesk), oryantal arabesk (oriental arabesk), sol arabesk or devrimci arabesk (left-wing or revolutionary arabesk) (Ahmet Kaya) (see Özbek 1991, 126–127). Sezen Aksu’s pop and green arabesks can be added to this list. During the AKP’s reign, in which society was much more fed with neoconservatism, green22 or Islamic arabesk had emerged and expanded through the new development of Islamic small entrepreneurs.23 Such fragmentation contrasted with the emergence of arabesk as the dominant music style among the populace in the 1960s. Many intellectuals of the period interpreted these developments as the revenge of the popular classes against the old urban elites and the harshly negative declarations, which had been made about the dominance of the style. In reality, this was the sing of the changes in parameters of cultural struggle. This time, the contradiction between elite (Western) music and popular music (arabesk) was replaced by the division of arabesk into sub-genres. It is not surprising that, under these circumstances, the culture industry as well as the State encouraged urban migrants or the urban poor to develop their own lifestyles and identities distinct from other urban dwellers, while not discouraging the urban middle and upper classes from developing their own lifestyles.24 While there was a considerable reaction of urban middle and upper classes against the arabesk styles, popular among the urban poor, the 1990s were the years of restoring the lost status of arabesk, but this time selectively. Singers and songwriters Orhan Gencebay and Müslüm Gürses started being considered as the elite of arabesk and their songs as classics, while some others, such as Ahmet Kaya, were anathematized, due to their high affiliation with the Kurdish movement and the working class. Conclusion The Kemalist regime of the early Republican period aimed to construct its newly made subjects as citizens of the nation by transforming their behavior, habits, and social values through social reforms forced upon people from above. On the basis of such governmentality, until the end of the 1950s, the main underlying effect of cultural formation in Turkey was to polarize formal and popular cultures.

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In the 1950s, liberalism, especially in the economic sense, became a motor for the emergence or expansion of popular activities in society, as cultural production was opened to market forces. This gave rise to new channels for popular cultural forms to be disseminated throughout Turkish society, particularly in the bigger cities. During the 1960s the masses began to be politicized and the decade was the heyday of the social-democratic and socialist left. Urban migration and urbanization remained generators of cultural milieu that facilitated cultural interaction. So Arabesk emerged as the musical reaction of the popular classes to the world-view of the powerful within urban context. According with de Certeau’s description of the popular, one can argue that arabesk is a particular response of the populace to forced modernization and the social problems that arose during modernization process from the 1920s through to the 1960s. From a Bakhtinian perspective, arabesk is a transgressive form, which goes beyond that promoted by officialdom. As Gramsci notes, culture is something accumulated through the long history of the popular and sedimented in memory of the people, which can only become visible if one goes beyond the official history written “for people” sanctioned by the people’s own silence. Arabesk is a form of representation of a popular cultural identity that transgresses the official conception of national identity and extends beyond the nationstate’s borders. In the 1980s, society began to be restructured on the basis of the new right’s fundamental precepts aimed at turning political pessimism and social apathy into a collective new mood. This was achieved through hegemonic struggles of the power bloc over social spaces and forms of knowledge, and through micro-techniques of turning passive into active consent. This implies that the political strategy of the new right was, rather than to rely on the consensual ideologys of the 1960s, to dismantle it without replacing it with a new one. The continuing decline in organized politics and the expansion of market relations into cultureled popular culture to become the locus of the political and economic strategies of the authorities within which they could manipulate people’s hopes, desires, and fears. Since the 1980s, the neoliberal discourses of the new elites have allowed public acceptability for arabesk. The increasing promotion of arabesk coincided with its fragmentation. While this led arabesk to lose its hegemonic power, it also turned arabesk into a style within which social struggles continued along the lines that separate arabesk’s subgenres; and into each of which different social groups invest significance (such as desires, meanings, feelings, and memories). Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

See Belge 1983, 1985, 1990; Belge et al. 1980; Bora 1993; Ergönültaş 1979; Güngör 1990; Karakayalı 1995; Kozanoğlu 1994, 1996; Markoff 1994; Oktay 1993; Özbek 1991, 1997; Tekelioğlu 1995, 1997. See Gedik 2011. See Erol 2009; Gürbilek 2001; Işık and Erol 2002; Küçükkaplan 2013; Stokes 1992a, 2010. See Yarar 2008 and 2009. Also see Erol 2009. See Also Gardiner’s interpretation of Bakhtin (Gardiner 1992). Bakhtin poses this thesis in his analysis of the moment of the irruption of the popular into high culture at the time of the transformation of the feudal order and formation of modernity (Gardiner 1992, 55).

188 • Betül Yarar 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

For the concept of the invention of tradition see Hobsbawn and Rager. 1983. Aksoy 1985; Behar 1985 and 1988. Within a few months this was replaced with a much more comprehensive and enduring system of censorship, analysing both the musical form and textual content of music played on the radio (Tekelioğlu 1997, 2). This class of migrant nouveaux riches saw their aspirations represented in popularized Turkish art music, then typified by Zeki Müren. The tastes of the settled bourgeoisie were captivated by the revived şarkı style of Munir Nurettin Selçuk (a previously-popularized Turkish art music form) and the tango of Fehmi Ege (Stokes 1992a, 125). For a more detailed analysis of Zeki Müren’s music see Stokes 2010. For the history of Turkish light music see Kahyaoğlu 1994; Karakayalı 1995; Ok 1994; Selçuk 1982; Şenyapılı 1981; Tekelioğlu 1995. See Yarar 2009. For these types of criticism see a series published in 1987 in the magazine Milliyet sanat under the heading of “Devlet ve sanat: ‘Klasik müzikte arabesk yönetim’ ” [The State and Art: Arabesk government in classical music] with the contribution of various music experts, such as Bülent Berkman, Mahir Dinçer, Üner Birkan, Faruk Yener and Atila Sav. See also Altan Öymen, 1988, “Istanbul Festivali”, Milliyet, July 17. For an example see “Arabesk Başkanlık katında” [Arabesk at the highest office], 1988, Müzik magazin, 17, April. See also “Allah Allah bu nasıl ‘vaka’ ” [Allah Allah, what kind of a case is this!] 1988, Nokta, August 14. “Allah Allah’lı ANAP propagandası”, [‘Allah Allah’ as propaganda for the ANAP] 1988, Hürriyet, August, 14. See also “Arabeskçiler ANAP’a” (Arabesk fans to the ANAP), 1987, Nokta, November. See İlkan, 1988, “Televizyonda arabesk” [Arabesque on television]. The direct translation is “arabesk without pain.” Arabesk has frequently been accused of being fatalistic and pessimistic, like the people (presumed to be migrants) who listen to it. Thus the term “acısız arabesk” can also be translated as “happy arabesk.” Stokes’ translation is “arabesk with the acı (pain) and keder (grief) removed.” “Sanatçıların sesi ‘gür’ çıktı” [The artists’ voices came out loud and clear], 1988, Müzik magazin, 17, April. The First Music Congress in 1988 was an important occasion where issues concerning music production and measures to take were discussed. See the unpublished interview with E. Şarıtaş by Tufur, 1995. In the bulletin published by MÜYAP (The Turkish Phonographic Industry Society), 1999. Islamist movement. http://arsiv.taraf.com.tr/yazilar/ayse-hur/yine-yeni-yeniden-arabesk/12722/. See also www.musikidergisi.net/ ?p=1552 (15.12.2014). For a general analysis of the cultural fragmentation and antagonisms that emerged during the 1980s see Kozanoğlu, 1996 and 1994.

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190 • Betül Yarar Ok, Akın. 1994. 68 Çığlıkları: Anadolu rock, Anadolu protest, Anadolu pop [The screams of 68: Anatolian rock, Anatolian protest, Anatolian pop]. Istanbul: Broy. Oktay, Ahmet. 1993. Türkiye’de popüler kültür [Popular culture in Turkey]. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları. Özbek, Meral. 1991. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular Culture and Orhan Gencebay’s arabesk]. Istanbul: İletişim. ——. 1997. “Arabesk Culture: A Case of Modernization and Popular Identity.” In Rethinking Modernity, and National Identity in Turkey, edited by Sibel Bozdoğan and Reşat Kasaba, 211–232. Washington: University of Washington Press. Selçuk, Timur. 1982. “Küçümsenmeyecek tablo.” [A picture which cannot be devalued.] Gösteri 2 (16): 73. Şenyapılı, Önder. 1981. “Pop müzik.” [Pop music.] Sanat olayı 6 (6): 48–51. Stokes, Martin. 1992a. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press. ——. 1992b. “Islam, the Turkish State and Arabesk.” Popular Music 11 (12): 213–227. ——. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Tekelioğlu, Orhan. 1995. “Türk popunun tarihsel arka planı.” [The historical background of Turkish pop.] Toplum ve bilim 67: 157–178. ——. 1997. “Resistance through Music: A Look at the Turkish Popular Music Scene in the 1950s.” IPSA, XVIIth World Congress, August, 17–21. Tomlinson, Alan. 1990. “Introduction: Consumer Culture and the Aura of the Commodity.” In Consumption, Identity and Style, edited by Alan Tomlinson, 1–41. London: Routledge. Tufur, Melis. 1995. “Pop müziğin altın çağı mı?” [Is it the golden age of pop music?] Makro ekonomi, Ocak, 11–23. Tura, Yalçın. 1985. “Cumhuriyet döneminde Türk musikisi.” [Turkish music in the republican period.] Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi. Cilt 6. 1510–1516. Istanbul: İletişim. Üstel, Füsun. 1994. “1920’li ve 30’lu yıllarda ‘milli musiki’ve ‘musiki inkılabı’.” [National music and music reform in the 1920s and 30s.] Defter 7 (22): 41–57. Yarar, Betül. 2008. “Politics of/and Popular Music: An Analysis of the History of Arabesk Music from the 1960s to the 1990s in Turkey.” Cultural Studies 22 (1): 35–79. ——. 2009. Politics and/of Popular Culture: Football and Arabesk Music in the Times of the New Right in Turkey. Saarbrüken, Germany: VDM Publishing.

Discography Aksu, Sezen. “Kusura bakma”/“Yaşanmamış yıllar.” (I Beg Your Pardon/Unlived Years.) Doğan Plak 513, 1976, 45 rpm. ——. “Kaybolan yıllar”/“Neye yarar.” (Lost Years/What Use is It.) Kent 1108, 1978, 45 rpm. ——. Ağlamak güzeldir (Crying is Nice). Kervan LP 59 stereo, 1981, 45 rpm. ——. Firuze (Turquoise). Kervan 66, 1982, 45 rpm. ——. Sen ağlama (Don’t Cry). Sembol LP 114—CD 001, 1984, Cassette Album. ——. Gülümse (Smile). Çoşkun Plak 091, 1991, 45 rpm. ——. Işık doğudan yükselir (The Light Rises from the East/Ex Oriente Lux). Tempa Foneks 023, 1995, compact disc. Besen, Ümit. Şikayetim var (I’ve Got a Complaint). Emre Plak LP 508, 1980, 45 rpm. ——. Islak mendil (Wet Handkerchief). Emre Plak LP 511, 1981, 45 rpm. ——. Seni seviyorum (I Love You). Emre Plak LP 539, 1986, 45 rpm. Gencebay, Orhan. “Neredesin Leylam”/“Felek gurbete attın.” (Where are You My Leyla/Fate Drove Me to Exile.) Columbia Plak 669, 1963, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Ağla sazım ağla”/“Gurbet elde.” (Cry My Saz, Cry/In Exile.) Columbia Plak 699, 1966, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Başa gelen çekilirmiş”/“Sensiz bahar geçmiyor.” (Living Our Destiny/I can’t Live Through This Spring Without You.) Moda Plak 7, 1968, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Sevenler mesut olmaz”/“Beni de Allah yarattı.” (Lovers will Never Find Happiness/Hey, I was also Created by God.) Istanbul Plak 9150, 1969, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Bir teselli ver”/“Yorgun gözler.” (Lovers will Never Find Happiness/Tired Eyes.) Istanbul Plak 9175, 1971, 331⁄3 rpm ——. “Ben eski halimle daha mesuttum”/“Hor görme garibi.” (I was Happier as I was/Do not Despise the Poor.) Istanbul Plak 9180, 1971, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Kaderimin oyunu”/“Efkar bastı gönlümü.” (Game of My Destiny/Blues in My Heart.) Istanbul Plak 9192, 1971, 331⁄3 rpm.

History of Popular Meanings and Feelings • 191 ——. “Sen de bizdensin”/“Sev dedi gözlerim.” (You’re One of Us/I said to My Eyes, Love.) Istanbul Plak 9251, 1972, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Dertler benim olsun”/“Gönül.” (May Sorrow Find Me/Heart.) Kervan 067, 1974, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Batsın bu dünya”/“Sevmenin zamanı yok.” (May this World Fall Apart/Love can Happen at Any Time.) Kervan 102, 1975, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. “Hatasız kul olmaz”/“Kara çalı.” (No-One is without Fault/Black Bush.) Kervan 109, 1976, 331⁄3 rpm. Gürses, Müslüm. “Çilekeş (Yaşamak istemiyorum)”/“Bu günün var yarını.” (I don’t Want to live Forever Suffering/Today is Tomorrow.) Hülya Plak 660, 1972, 45 rpm. ——. “İçiyorsam sebebi var” (Böylesine)/“Sevenler acısın.” (There’s a Reason Why I Drink (Like This)/May Lover have Pity on Me.) Hülya Plak 88, 1977, 45 rpm. ——. “Sevenler anlar—İntizar”/“Hüdayı tanımasaydım.” (Gazel) (Lovers understand—Expectation/If I didn’t know God.) Saner 101, 1979, 45 rpm. Kaya, Ahmet. Acılara tutunmak (Held by Pain). Taç Plak, 1985, audio cassette. ——. Ağlama bebeğim (Don’t Cry, My Baby). Taç Plak 0002, 1985, audio cassette. ——. An gelir (Time will Come). Uzelli türkiye, 1986, audio cassette. ——. Baş kaldırıyorum (I Revolt). Barış Plak 1001, 1988, audio cassette. ——. Başım belada (I’m in Trouble). Barış Plak, 1991, audio cassette. ——. Şafak türküsü (Dawn Song). Taç Plak 0009, 1986, audio cassette. ——. Şarkılarım dağlara (My Songs for the Mountains). Raks Müzik, 1994, audio cassette. ——. Yorgun demokrat (Tired Democrat). Taç Plak 0013, 1987, audio cassette. Kurdoğlu, Cengiz, Sen sözden anlamaz mısın? (Don’t You Understand a Word?). Özer Kardeşler, 1985, audio cassette. ——. Unutulan (The Forgotton One). Özer Kardeşler LP-101, 1986, audio cassette. ——. Son ümit (Last Hope). Minareci Almanya 4489, 1988, audio cassette. Küçük Ceylan. Bırakmam seni (I’m not Leaving You). Şah Plak LP-204, 1987, compact disc. ——. Sev beni seveyim seni (Love Me and I’ll Love You). ŞahPlak LP-106, 1988, compact disc. Küçük Emrah. Boynu bükükler (The Miserable Ones). Bayar B.B. 103, 1986, 45 rpm. ——. Hoş geldin gülüm (Welcome, My Flower). Bayar 124, 1991, compact disc. ——. Narin (Delicate) yarim. Raks Müzik, 1996, compact disc. ——. Yaralı (Wounded). Güneş M-G 101, 1985, 45 rpm. Müren, Zeki. “Unutturamaz seni hiç bir şey”/“Ayrılık ne kadar zor.” (Nothing can Make Me Forget You/Breaking Up is Hard to Do.) Grafson 3205, 1964, 45 rpm. ——. “Gardiyan”/“Yalnızım yalnız.” (Guard/I’m Completely Alone.) Grafson 3268, 1965, 45 rpm. ——. “Açık bırak pencereni”/“Zalimin zulmü.” (Leave Your Window Open/The Cruelty of the Cruel.) Grafson 3714, 1970, 45 rpm. Özbeğen, Ferdi. Mutluluklar (A Lot of Happiness). Kervan 53, 1980, 45 rpm. ——. Nice yıllara (Happy Birthday). Yaşar LP MC 1, 1980, 45 rpm. Selçuk, Munir Nurettin. Üstad (Master), Odeon 321, 1968, 45 rpm. ——. Munir Nurettin Selçuk [epynominous title]. Sahibinin Sesi LP 104, 1968, 45 rpm. Tatlıses, İbrahim, “İndim gülün bağına”/“Kırmızı gülleri fidan eyledim.” (I went Down to the Rose-Bushes/I Made a Young Tree from Red Roses.) Şah Plak 145, 1968, 45 rpm. ——. “Ayağımda kundura”/“Erzurum dağları.” (Shoes on My Feet/Mountains of Erzurum.) Ömer Plak 1191, 1975, 45 rpm. ——. “Düşenin dostu yoğimiş”/“Doldur kardaş içelim.” (The Fallen One had No Friends/Pour It My Friend and Let’s Drink.) Ömer Plak, 1976, 45 rpm. ——. “Sabuha” [a woman’s name]/“Ayrılık kolay değil.” (Breaking Up isn’t Easy.) Türküola Türkiye 233, 1979, 45 rpm. ——. “Seni yakacaklar”/“Ölürsem kabrime gelme istemem.” (They will Burn You/When I Die, Don’t Even Visit My Grave.) Türküola Türkiye 243, 1980, 45 rpm. ——. “Multu ol yeter”/“Bir kulunu çok sevdim.” (It’s Enough for Me That You’re Happy/Dear God, I Loved One of Your People Too Much.) Türküola Türkiye 247, 1981, 45 rpm. ——. “Yalan”/“Sarışınsın.” (A Lie/You’re Blonde.) Türküola Almanya 6144, 1984, 45 rpm. Tayfur, Ferdi. “Derdim nedir soruyorlar”/“Melekler güler yüze.” (They Asked Me what My Trouble is/Angels Smile on Me.) Seda Plak 532, 1967, 45 rpm. ——. “Akşam güneşi”/“Çiçekler açsın.” (Evening Sun/May the Flowers Open.) Elele Plak 101, 1974, 45 rpm. ——. “Yadeller”/“Ağlamazsam uyuyamam.” (Foreign Lands/I can’t Sleep if I don’t Cry.) Elenor 1050, 1975, 45 rpm. ——. “Merak etme sen”/“Söz veriyorum.” (Don’t You Worry/I Promise.) Elenor Plak 1073, 1977, 45 rpm. ——. “Durdurun dünyayı”/“Boynu büküğüm.” (Stop the World/My Miserable One.) Elenor Plak, 1980, 45 rpm. ——. “Yaktı beni”/“Sen mutlusun ben perişan.” (He Burned me/You’re Happy, I’m Wretched.) Türküola Almanya 6143, 1981, 45 rpm.

13 The Rise of a Folk Instrument in Turkish Popular Music The Mey Songül Karahasanoğlu

This chapter is the result of long research regarding the relation between popular music and the mey in Turkey. The research to date has charted the cultural and historical role of the mey and attempts at innovation and its integration into professional musical life. The goals of this paper are twofold: The first is to introduce the mey as an instrument, and the second is to recognize its status within Turkish popular music. The mey is a double-reed aerophone used in Turkish folk music. It is one member of a larger family of aerophones found throughout Central Asia and the Middle East. It is made up of three pieces: The body (gövde), the reed (kamış), and the tuning-bridle (kıskaç). Its wooden body is cylindrical, and has seven finger holes at the front and one thumbhole at the back (see Figure 13.1). The characteristic timbre of the mey comes from its large double reed; the range of the instrument is limited to one octave. In order to play a scale, notes are produced by a combination of finger positions and lip pressure; only certain maqams (modes) may be played. The mey can be included in multi-instrument ensembles as a solo instrument or as a part of the accompaniment; when it is used in such a section; the tonic drone (dem) is often supplied by a different instrument. Mey players generally play a short un-metered improvisation (taksim or açış) before each piece. its mellow and wistful sound is consistent with these forms. Historical manuscripts and cultural artifacts show the mey’s antiquity and its historical roots. On the basis of such findings, we can say that the instrument goes back thousands of years; some musicologists believe that reed instruments, particularly the double reeds, date as far back as Hellenistic Egypt. For example, Henry George Farmer explains in his book that, “[these] reed instruments are called mait. We happen to see long or short types from the fourth dynasty (Egypt). Most probably they are played with a double-reed as it is with modern oboes” (1986, 316). Similarly, musicologist and organologist Laurence Picken agrees that the mey is related to the mait and monaulos found in Egypt (Picken 1975, 477). Apart from the fact that all these instruments derive from the same root, we can also trace how its members have changed over time. As Guillaume André Villateau, the author of Description de l’Égypte (1809), reported, there was an instrument that closely resembled the mey called the Irakiyye in Egypt, which was part of the Ottoman Empire (Aksoy 1994,

194 • Songül Karahasanoğlu

Figure 13.1 The Mey (Made by Ayhan Kahraman in 1992, Istanbul) Photo by the author from her archive

282). Likewise, Turkish musicologist Mahmut Ragıp Gazimihal agrees with the idea of a common origin in his studies of the history of the mey: From the pictures of the monuments of the ancient reign in Egypt (3000–3500 BCE) we understand that the Egyptians used to play short narrow reeds. These reeds had 3, 4, 5 or 6 finger-holes and they were named after the trees of their origin. Meanwhile the real name we read from hieroglyphs is the mayit. (Gazimihal 1935, 456) When Gazimihal conducted his fieldwork in 1930 in Erzurum, a province of Eastern Turkey, he found the mey and commented: the thin reeds called may in the far country of the Pharaohs are exactly the same as the zurnas played in Erzurum to accompany our folk dances. The two meys played in Erzurum and Egypt are so much alike in form that the pitch-coated string used to control the reed in the flat piece you take into your mouth turned out to be the same as the kıskaç (pincers—tuning bridle) used in Erzurum meys to provide the flatness of the instrument. These pincers are a kind of flat ring. A few reeds which are found in Egyptian graves are kept in museums. (Gazimihal 1935, 455) Although the literature demonstrates continuity from ancient to modern times for the mey in diverse cultures and explains its wide geographical distribution today, the extended family the mey belongs to has undergone changes over time. However, it seems that these changes have been relatively minor when compared to those of European instruments. The most important thing behind these small changes is that the key differences between the mey and its siblings, such as the balaban and duduk, do not lie so much in their physical forms, but in the ways that they have been integrated into different socio-cultural contexts. In other words, what is surprising at first glance is that over centuries of assimilation into local musical styles and aesthetics, there have only been minor modifications in the structure of the instrument. Thus the rise of the mey in its different genres of today should be searched in the unique yet interrelated conditions of each culture and tradition. The search becomes more complicated when we take into account that speaking of Turkish popular music refers to a corpus of interpenetrated traditions and influences

The Rise of the Mey • 195

including Ottoman music, the different Anatolian folk traditions, arabesk, as well as European and American popular music. All these musical currents continue to influence popular music in Turkey, and in many ways the various forms of popular music found today are extensions or reinterpretations of these four principle categories. Given the mey’s place in Anatolia’s different folk traditions for centuries, being part of popular music and film soundtracks is not surprising. Although the etymology of the names of instruments is not always an indicator of their ethnic identity, in order to understand the mey’s culturally-diverse contexts as the instrument has spread across linguistic and cultural lines, it helps to look at the subtle modifications of its name. The oldest source for the mey is a late fourteenth or early fifteenth century work entitled Makasıdul-Elhan. It was written by Ibn Ghaybi Al-Maraghi Abd Al-Qadir (1350?–1435), a composer, performer, and theorist who is traditionally considered to be the founder of musical research from Maraga to Anatolia. Here, the instrument referred to as the nayçei balaban is likened to the surnay (another name for the zurna) and is described as having a soft and wistful sound (Bardakçı 1986, 107). About two centuries later, Evliya Çelebi (1611–1683) describes this instrument in his travelogue in the following manner: The Belban (or balaban, reed pipe of the Turkmen) was invented in Shiraz. It had no kalak (the flared end of the instrument) resembling that of the zurna which is a double reed shawm. It was used mostly by Turks and there were about a hundred players in Istanbul. (Evliya Çelebi 1898, 61) Obviously, both scholars seem to attribute some variation of the balaban to what today is also referred to as the mey and the duduk. The names mey and balaban are modified forms of the terms nay-i balaban or nayçe-i balaban, and these have been slowly modified as the instrument spread throughout Central Asia. The suffix -çe is a diminutive suffix in Ottoman Turkish, by way of Persian. Nay means reed in Old Persian, so nayçe then means small reed. In some sources, we also encounter the word mey being used alternately with nay. Laurence Picken refers to it as both the mey and nay when he introduces this instrument in his Folk Musical Instruments of Turkey. He writes that the “mey bodies which are manufactured for the Erzurum market are called nay” (1975, 475–477). Interestingly, another name for the duduk in Armenia is also nay (Haykakan sovetakan hanragitaran 1977, 459). The duduk is known by three different names: Dudug, nay, and ney (Vertkon et al., 1963, 459). It is likely that the word nay, when modified according to the phonetics of Turkish, becomes ney, and is therefore not to be confused with the reed flute called the ney of Turkish classical music. Probably, the name mey was given to this instrument in order to distinguish this instrument from the classical ney. The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians online version states that the balaban is a “cylindrical oboe of the Caucasus (particularly Azerbaijan), Northern Iran and Northeastern Iraq. In Northern Iran the balaban is also known by its older Turkish name nerme ney or mey” (During et al., 2003). On the other hand, the word duduk is a very old Turkish word. Its most general meaning is “whistle” and it is the general term used for all the aerophones used in Anatolia.

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Gerard Clauson cites düdik as a Turkmen-rooted word (Clauson 1972, 455). In the eleventh century manuscript Divanü Lugati-Türk, tütek is referred to as a shepherd’s mouth-pipe. The duduk is also briefly mentioned in the thirteenth–fourteenth century Turkish manuscript, Kitâb-ı Dede Korkut (Dede Korkut’s book) (Gökyay 1973, 98–123). In a 1933 article on the Georgian duduk, “Folk Music of Georgia”, which was written for The Musical Quarterly, Belaiev and Pring states: As for the duduki—the name is derived from a Turkish root—it is common in the Caucasus and Turkey, where it is known as the mey. Furthermore, the duduki appears to be very closely related to the cylindrical oboes of ancient Egypt, many specimens of which have been unearthed in various excavations. (Belaiev and Pring 1933, 420) The double reed itself goes by many names according to where it is found in Central Asia. In Turkey, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Iraq, and Iran it can be referred to as gamish, ghameech, kamış, ramish, or ghamish respectively. To sum up, the Turkish mey,

Figure 13.2 From Top Down: The Mey (Made by Ayhan Kahraman, 1992, Istanbul), the Duduk (Made by Garlen, 1991, Erevan), and the Balaban (Made by Babahan Amirov,1994, Bakü) Photo by the author from her archive

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Figure 13.3 From Left to Right: The Mey (Made by Ayhan Kahraman, 1992, Istanbul), the Duduk (Made by Garlen, 1991, Erevan), and the Balaban (Made by Babahan Amirov,1994, Bakü) Photo by the author from her archive

the Caucasian balaban (played particularly in Azerbaijan but also in northern Iran and northeastern Iraq), and the Armenian duduk are closely related. These double reed aerophones are characterized by a short cylindrical tube with seven or more finger-holes together with a thumb-hole, and large double reeds coupled with a bridle. Other closely related instruments are the balaban of Central Asia; the duduki of Georgia; the hichiriki of Japan; the kuan, guan, or guanzi of China; the yasti balaban of Dagestan; the hyanpiri of Korea; the balaban of Uzbekistan; and the kamış sırnay of Kyrgyzstan. Having examined the etymological variations within this family, we can now turn to pay particular, if limited, attention to the subtle distinctions between the Turkish mey and its siblings: The Azeri balaban and Armenian duduk (see Figures 13.2, 13.3). What are these instruments? The Balaban The Azeri balaban (Balaman, Yasti Balaman) has eight finger holes, one thumbhole, and occasionally an additional hole on the lower back. It is usually 28–37 cms long and is made of mulberry or apricot wood. The reed is 9–11 cms in length and is inserted into the

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globular head of the instrument. The balaban produces a diatonic scale with a range up to a ninth or eleventh with chromatic notes played by partly covering the finger holes (Abdullayeva 1984, 61). Primarily an ensemble instrument, it is often played in duets with another balaban, and accompanied by the nagara (drum) or daf (frame drum) for songs, dances, and purely instrumental pieces. According to Koçarow, “The balaban has two main duties: As soloist or accompanist and in both cases two balabans usually play together” (Koçarow 1977, 4–5). A balaban can also be used to accompany an ashug (poet-singer). Today the balaban is used throughout Azerbaijan in folk ensembles and is also played in larger professional or amateur ensembles belonging to urban and rural clubs. The Azeri balaban performer Alihan Semedov now lives in Istanbul and plays a balaban which has ten holes. The tenth hole however is not played with a finger, and is called the ayar (tuner) (Semedov, personal communication, 2003). Üzeyir Hacıbeyov created an Azeri “folk instrument orchestra” in 1931; since then it has been widely used as a solo instrument in such a setting. In the notation used for group performances, the balaban plays a half tone lower than written (Koçarow 1977, 5). It is still quite popular today and played by both amateur and professional musicians. As Azeri culture predates contemporary geo-political borders, it is not surprising that the balaban is also found in Northern Iran and Northeastern Iraq. Both Albright (1989, 569) and Jenkins and Olsen (1976, 70)describe the Iranian balaban as being 35 cm long with seven finger holes and a thumb-hole; it is made of mulberry or walnut and has a bore diameter of 1.5 cm with a double reed 6 cm long. The balaban or qarnata, which is also used by the Turkmen and Kurds of Northeast Iraq, is made from a straight tube, which is about 30 cm long, and has seven finger holes and one thumbhole. The broad rectangular double reed (pik, qamish) is 10 cm long and is fitted with ring-shaped regulators (Jenkins and Olsen 1976, 70). The Duduk Another instrument in this extended family is the Armenian duduk. It is a cylindrical aerophone made from apricot wood. The instrument itself is a hollow pipe with eight finger holes on the upper side and one thumbhole on the lower. Andy Nercessian found that while previous references had only mentioned three possible sizes for the duduk, contemporary craftsmen in Armenia make a wide range of instruments. Citing Garland (2006), a well-known duduk craftsman in Yerevan, Nercessian states “aside from the four most commonly made types, (Garland 2006) has experimented enough to create a tiny 15 cm duduk, and could not recall the size of the largest one . . .” (Nercessian 2001, 215). Commonly the duduk is tuned in A and is 35.5 cm long. The double-reed, also known as ramish, ghamish, ghameech, or yegheg in Armenian, is typically 9–14 cm long. The duduk’s range is an octave and a third; it requires considerable skill to play as its dynamics and intonation are controlled by constant adjustment of the lips. The tuning is basically untempered and diatonic, though chromatic notes may be obtained by partially covering the finger-holes and by the use of varying lip pressure. The duduk is typically played in pairs with the lead duduk playing the melody and a second duduk playing a tonic drone (dam/dem) which serves as a constant counterpoint to the melody and also acts as

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a reference note for improvisation. While the second performer’s role is somewhat limited, it is highly important. This is reflected in the fact that there is a special term used for the musician who plays the tonic drone. In Armenian they are referred to as damkash, and in Azeri and Turkish as demkeş. In the past, the duduk was most commonly used in folk music, but more recently it has also appeared in sacred, urban, classical, and popular music. It has achieved some international popularity though the work of performers such as Djivan Gasparyan. In Armenia, it is commonly associated with minstrels (asugh) as well as in lively dance pieces to accompany singers, and is often the lead melody instrument in folk ensembles. The duduk is often supported by the gentle sound of the dhol (hand drum). According to the Atlas of Musical Instruments of the People of the Soviet Union, the body of the duduk (nay) is similar to the Azeri balaban and the Georgian duduki (Vertkon et al. 1963, 459). Following the standard pattern in the Central Asian branch of this family, the duduk is usually played in pairs. Whether this pairing is joined by other instruments depends upon the context. The long study the instrument demands generally ends with a mastery of maqam. Although it has recently been used in many different styles, in Armenia at least, the duduk is most commonly associated with laments and is often played at funerals, and in Armenia it is a powerful national symbol. While songs and melodies vary between the mey, duduk, and balaban, the use of maqams as the basis is the main shared characteristic of the repertoire of these instruments. According to Nercessian, moughamats, or maqams, are played on the duduk (Nercessian 2001, 56). He goes on to comment on the “strong affinity” between duduk players in Armenia and musicians in neighboring Muslim countries. While Nercessian leaves this affinity aside to focus on what he refers to as the “methods employed in the creation of mood,” it is worth emphasizing for our purposes that although the performance contexts might vary from place to place, playing technique and construction show a high level of similarity across the whole family (Nercessian 2001, 112). There are few scholars who would question the unifying influence of the Ottoman Empire on its subjects at the time, and to this day mey players in Turkey are aware of the work of their peers in Armenia on the duduk. Differences It should be pointed out that there are some differences between the mey, duduk, and balaban. First, as described before, they have some minor tonal and structural differences. Furthermore, all three differ with respect to range, function, and repertoire because of the particular musical systems they represent. Development of the duduk and the balaban has been strongly influenced by socio-political events. Buni’s and Hacıbeyov’s reconstruction of these instruments, for example, has resulted in their more frequent appearance as solo or ensemble instruments in concerts (Abdullayeva 1984; Rahmatov 1975). Levin, when speaking of the Soviet influence on Central Asian music, notes that, “[T]he use of a diatonic scale and notation has been a result of the Soviet policy of Europeanization” (Levin 1980, 154). We can say that twentieth century performers of the duduk and the balaban both, whether on their own initiative or through state pressure, did not hesitate to develop their respective instruments.

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In contrast, in Turkey (especially since the establishment of the Republic in 1923) folk music and instruments have been collected, and efforts have been made to protect their authenticity, which in many cases, including that of the mey, has led to the underdevelopment of the instrument: One of the greatest factors for musical change in Turkey was the transition from the Ottoman Empire to the new Turkish republic after the First World War. Kemal Atatürk and his compatriots set into motion a process of modernization and secularization that would eventually touch all aspects of Turkish life. Music was no exception to this, and while the state-sponsored, modernization process drew heavily upon European polyphonic art music, there was a strong emphasis on preserving core “Turkish” features. (Karahasanoğlu and Skoog 2009, 53) The status of the mey in modern Turkey is an ambiguous one. While not ubiquitous, it is not uncommon. It is performed in the countryside and in cities by both amateurs and professionals. Its manufacturers have adopted modern trends in construction, and they have institutional support both from the State radio service and universities. At the same time, the mey has been incorporated into Turkey’s popular music. In many ways it is an invisible instrument; many hear it but few in Turkey can recognize its sound. While other instruments have received strong State support, the mey has essentially been unsupported in Turkey. However, in spite of the lack of knowledge about the mey, it has been played in many popular music productions. Starting in the 1950s, attempts have been made to solve the mey’s tuning and intonation issues in order to allow better integration into larger ensembles, yet few modifications have been made over the last eighty years. The mey has always been widely played in Eastern Turkey,1 and its nature is most suitable for the character of this region’s music. It has a mellow, non-strident sound, which makes it preferable for playing indoors. Musicians usually have a fairly low social status and most of them earn their livings by playing at weddings. That said, the social status of mey players somewhat improved over the last few decades as the mey has been slowly integrated into urban soundscapes through its use from time to time in television and advertising. The mey was first played on State radio in the 1950s. It was used, albeit rarely, in the soundtracks of social-commentary films of the 1970s.2 The strengthening of the music industry by the mass media, and the increasing number of institutions that include study of the mey, are the main factors accounting for its increased popularity in recent years. Musical taste changed in Turkey during the twentieth century. The development of Turkish music over the last century has been affected both by influences from within, such as the founding of the Turkish Republic (1923) and the 1980 coup, and influences from abroad, particularly those mediated by ever-changing media technologies. In many ways the various forms of popular music found today are extensions of Ottoman art and folk music and Western-influenced overarching categories. These currents have and continue to shape popular music in Turkey. Ottoman art music was drastically impacted by the establishment of the Turkish Republic, art music that was itself an amalgam of Turkish influences and musical influences from minorities and neighboring cultures. In spite of a rich Ottoman music culture, without the

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support of the new state, many classical musicians were forced to modify their style to meet the demands of public consumption. On the other hand, as a result of the new state’s cultural policies, folk music collection began. In 1945, the works collected began to be broadcast on State radio. The reproduction of rural folk music in the new media was greatly affected by collectors who collected and reformulated folk pieces for performance by large choirs and orchestras. These new formats had a major impact on musical life in the young Turkish Republic. People were learning about music and instruments collected from rural areas like the mey, kaval, bağlama, and so on. The popular foreign musics that had the greatest influence on performance in Turkey came predominantly from the Mediterranean. Groups were formed to perform Mediterranean and American popular music; and at this time, artists chose to write Turkish lyrics for popular songs released in the West rather than composing new music. In addition to Ottoman and Western musical influences, Turkish folk music has also contributed greatly to the formation of contemporary popular music. Attempts were made to synthesize Western and Eastern music forms in the Republican period through instruments, maqams, and rhythms. In the mid-twentieth century, Anadolu Rock (Anatolian Rock) had a great impact on listeners; it mixed Euro-American popular forms, particularly rock ’n’ roll with Turkish music, played on a mixture of Western (electric guitar, bass, drums, Moog) and Turkish folk (bağlama, dümbelek, davul) instruments. As a consequence of this hybridity, the mey is still being played today. A slow process of modification for the mey began in 1961. Before the 1960s, it had yet to be integrated into the professional musical world in Turkey. Musicians started to use different body sizes to give different tunings in order to help integrate the mey into larger State ensembles. According to information from Binali Selman, a famous mey player, three sizes of the mey came into prominence: Ana (the largest), orta (the middle), and cura (the smallest). This early tripartite system foreshadowed the diatonic sizes produced today. While craftsmen have modernized the process of making a mey, there have been few attempts to broaden the capabilities of the instrument. It is unique due to its own particular uses and circumstances, and it is also part of a larger family of instruments spread across the region’s borders. Instrument maker and performer Ayhan Kahraman was the first to produce eight separate sizes of the mey in the 1990s, each corresponding to a note of the diatonic scale, from C to C. Today, other manufacturers are imitating his innovations and have begun to make meys in diatonic sets (see Figure 13.4). These changes brought increased knowledge of the mey and helped it to be taken up by other genres. It has been used in popular music, including world music, because of its unique sound. During Turkish popular music’s blending with local music, starting at the beginning of the 1980s, local instruments had great effect. The mey continues to be used in both popular music and popularized folk music.3 After the 1980 coup, cross-pollination between different popular musical genres in Turkey became so marked that by the 1990s, the distinctions between foreign and domestic genres had almost disappeared. These currents of influence are still apparent, but now need to be seen within particular pieces rather than genres. While formerly musicians performed within the boundaries of a particular genre, today they move freely between them. Arabesk, already loved by a great

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Figure 13.4 The Meys in Diatonic Sets (Made by Ayhan Kahraman in 1992, Istanbul) Photo by the author from her archive

many people, had widespread exposure on television and radio. By the 1990s, the use of instruments and maqam/mode/tonality had mixed so much that an amalgam of “WestArabesk-Turkish” music had emerged. Genres were no longer clearly “foreign” or “domestic” because decades of performing foreign musical styles had in practice integrated them into an amalgamated Turkish popular style. This led to the abolishment of borders between instruments like the ud, violin, kanun, dümbelek, the drum set, and guitar. While in the past, distinctions might have been made between pop and arabesk, today they too have comingled to the point of almost complete synthesis. While the number of Turkish instruments used popularly appears to be small, there was an explosion in the inclusion of such instruments in the recordings of the 1990s. Popular music instrumentation before the 1980s was predominately European, and it was not until the melding of styles of the 1980s that Turkish instruments began being incorporated in popular music. Some artists included Turkish instruments in an attempt to broaden their fanbase. Sezen Aksu, who began performing in a new hybrid style in the 1980s, is a very important singer in Turkish popular music. Additionally, she writes many of her own songs and has the largest self-penned repertoire in Turkish pop. She is one of the main artists who has broken down the barriers between genres and, after she became well-known, many other musicians followed her style. While most of the elements of her music were European,

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Aksu often used Turkish instruments, such as the ud, mey, and bağlama in the main melody.4 Some folk and art musicians sometimes used standard traditional song form, heterophony, and traditional instruments in accordance to contemporary aesthetics. After the 1990s they changed their style and used European and traditional instruments such as the mey, duduk, and balaban like her.5 Now most popular music recordings feature Europeanized polyphony and instrumentation together with such traditional instruments.6 Compared to the mey, the duduk has achieved wider recognition internationally. Some of the reasons for this are Peter Gabriel’s inclusion of Djivan Gasparyan on the albums The Last Temptation of Christ and Us, and CNN’s frequent use of this instrument behind war news footage in the 2000s. At this time, Armenian duduk players became better known in world music, and correspondingly Turkish duduk and mey players also became more popular (Çakmak and Ekmen, personal communication, 2014). Today, as with the mey, there are many duduk and balaban players in Turkey. Mey players can also play the balaban, duduk, and zurna. However, I could not find a single duduk player during my research among Armenians living in Istanbul in 1992, and eventually had to measure a deceased musician’s instrument. However, Istanbul now has many duduk/balaban players in addition to mey players. Even though the mey, duduk, and balaban are local instruments, they have been played by something like 40 professional musicians in studio recordings and live concerts. Because of their equal interval system and sonic width, the balaban, duduk, and zurna can be played in popular music. There are some musicians who are preferred by every arranger, soloist, and company owner in the Turkish music industry, and though there are many musicians who play these instruments, several have become more widely known due to their talent. For instance; while Erhan Tekin, Gürkan Çakmak, and Cem Ekmen are preferred for their duduk/balaban playing, Zafer Taştan, Mustafa Sorgun, Zafer Küçük, and Baran Aşık are preferred for their mey playing. These musicians are known for their openness to change, their technique, their ability to play in studios and to accompany soloists, and their adaptability in playing these instruments not only in folk music but also in pop. These instruments are also preferred in the music of Turkey’s minorities, where musicians play with singers who sing in Kurdish, Zaza, and Armenian. Some of these productions where the mey has been used are not available in the larger metropolitan music stores, rather, after the recordings are made in Istanbul, they are sent to their region, where they may have a mass audience (Aşık and Çakmak, personal communication, 2014). In the last 20 years the popularity of the duduk and balaban has increased in Turkey. While some musicians prefer to call their instrument balaban, some prefer duduk. Other players prefer to play duduks from Armenia instead of playing the balaban, and thus instrument makers in Turkey have started making the duduk because of increased demand. Even though these instruments have become more widespread, musicians’ income is not regular. It is said that the musicians sometimes play three or four times a day, sometimes three or four times a month, with an average of ten studio sessions a month (Ekmen, Aşık and Çakmak, personal communication, 2014). In fact all of the instrumentalists in question have a background and education on the mey. For example, Gürkan Çakmak, who learned to play the mey at the State conservatory, mostly works with pop musicians, and can switch between the mey, balaban, and duduk at his concerts (Çakmak, personal communication, 2014).

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More recently, the most popular folk instruments are the mey and instruments similar to it. They have been used on at least one song of almost all contemporary Turkish music albums (roughly 10 percent mey and 10 percent duduk/balaban). This can change according to the style and maqams. The new generation of composers tends to use a limited number of maqams such as kürdi, nihavend, hicaz, rast, uşşak, and hüzzam. In terms of maqams, it can be seen that the duduk is preferred in the kürdi, nihavent, and hicaz maqams, whereas the mey is preferred for the hüseyni, uşşak, and rast maqams. The mey is played on all Turkish folk music albums, including the folk and the minority ensemble musics of Anatolia. While the mey is usually preferred for a local sound, the use of the balaban and duduk in hybrid music projects has been increasing as they can be used by pop musicians who would like to have a different feel by using more Turkish or minority instrumentation. It is important to stress that while the structure of the mey, duduk, and balaban is essentially the same; their respective historical and cultural contexts have affected them very differently. The duduk, for instance, has achieved great success, both in Armenia and internationally. Due to the Former Soviet Union’s policies of Westernization and modernization, the authorities encouraged improvements to the instrument, altering its shape and changing its tuning to equal temperament (Karahasanoglu and Skoog 2011, 201). Conclusion/Thoughts The mey is both a unique instrument with its own particular usage and circumstances, and also part of a larger family of instruments spread across the borders of the region. Instruments and the music played on them are among the first ethnographic entities to migrate with people, travel across the world, and act inter-culturally. It is quite natural therefore that the structure of instruments should change through the centuries: That the body becomes a little thicker or thinner, shorter or longer, or gains and loses holes. As Racy points out, “As [musical instruments] migrate or continue to exist in time, they develop in accordance with local sound ideals, visual symbology, and construction exigencies and preferred playing techniques” (1994, 37). There are always “locally determined attributes” which distinguish regional variations from one another (ibid). When looking at the parallels and divergences between the mey, balaban, and duduk, one can see the slow growth of twigs from a larger branch, which might eventually become new branches in themselves. The developments of these twigs are directly influenced by the socio-political contexts in which they grow. One of the reasons for the mey’s popularity and recognition in the market, its use in popular music, films, and soap operas, is its unique timbre.7 Musicians from Turkey have been invited internationally to play not only the mey, but also the balaban and duduk. In addition, there are many solo albums by mey, balaban, and duduk players. Mey players create their own styles when they play sibling instruments like the balaban and duduk in Turkey. Notes 1. 2.

Erzurum, Bayburt, Kars, Erzincan, Hakkari, Tunceli, Artvin, Gümüşhane, Van, Ağrı, Muş, Diyarbakır, and Gaziantep. “Zülfü Livaneli-Sürü Film Müziği (Göç)”, YouTube video, posted by “tan7789”, October 16, 2009, www.youtube. com/watch?v=BgQzbScAHOI.

The Rise of the Mey • 205 3.

4. 5.

6. 7.

A survey of 51 pop albums made between 1995 and 2002 showed that they were recorded with 29 percent Turkish instruments, and 71 percent Western instruments. Regarding Turkish instruments, the percentage of mey usage at the turn of the century was 6 percent, balaban usage was 2 percent, and duduk usage was 2 percent (Karahasanoğlu, 2003). However, these percentages have greatly increased over the last ten years. “Sezen Aksu—Adı bende saklı,” YouTube video, posted by “SezenAksu Sezenciler,” September 16, 2011, www.youtube.com/watch?v=izbvgGRXPP8. “Sezen Aksu—Keskin bıçak,” YouTube video, posted by “Sezen Aksu,” May 29, 2012, www.youtube.com/watch?v=kR0EX8XK-8I. “Yarkın—Sarı gelin (Kervansaray),” YouTube video, posted by “DoNJoKeR04”, May 17, 2013, www. youtube.com/watch?v=6EBeX1wFtiM. “Ahmet Kaya—Ağladıkça,” YouTube video, posted by “Kadir Meşe,” December 21, 2012, www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAfBpM3E-54&index=4&list=PLgCHXmRpfV0G3oJQEmt Pr10CbFM9EShuh. “MFÖ—Mazeretim Var Asabiyim Ben,” YouTube video, posted by “Dünyadan Sesler,” May 4, 2012, www. youtube.com/watch?v=x74sPBTvSFg. “Şebnem Ferah—Sil baştan,” YouTube video, posted by “Arzu Spahi,” May 12, 2012, www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqbZGfWV-Io. For example, it has been used frequently in television series such as Kurtlar vadisi (Valley of the wolves) and Ezel (Eternity [a person’s name]) which have among the highest ratings on Turkish TV over 2005–2015: “Kurtlar Vadisi Gurbet”, YouTube video, posted by “DoNJoKeR04”, May 17, 2013, www.youtube.com/ watch?v=7GnbgQd9IQg. “Ezel ‘Sekiz’ Toygar Işıklı”, YouTube video, posted by “Arven Records by Toygar Işıklı”, Jan 19, 2016, www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pbHbLHOYt8&index=13&list=PLl4lFfozlRA9HSu2bp LqiBejH5er6Z_N9.

Bibliography Abdullayeva, Saadat. 1984. Çağdaş Azeri halk müziği [Contemporary Azeri folk music]. Baku: Işır. Aksoy, Bülent. 1994. Avrupalı gezginlerin gözüyle Osmanlılarda musiki [Ottoman music from the perspective of European travellers]. Istanbul: Pan Yayıncılık. Albright, Ch. 1989. “Balaban.” In Encyclopedia Iranica, edited by Elsan Yarshater, Vol. 3, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Bardakçı, Murat.1986. Maragali Abdülkadir [Abdülkadir from Maragheh]. Istanbul: Pan Yayıncılık. Belaiev, Victor, and S. W. Pring. 1933. “Folk music of Georgia.” The Musical Quarterly 19: 417–433. Clauson, Sir Gerard. 1972. An Etymological Dictionary of Pre-Thirteenth-Century Turkish. London: Oxford University Press. During, Jean, Johanna Spector, Scheherazade Qassim Hassan and Mark Slobin. “Bālābān.” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press. Accessed June 15, 2003. www.oxfordmusiconline.com/ subscriber/article/grove/music/46900. Evliya Çelebi, Mehmet. 1898 [1314]. Evliya Çelebi seyahatnamesi [The travelogue of Evliya Çelebi]. Cilt I. Istanbul: Ikdam Matbaasi. Farmer, Henry George.1986. Studies in Oriental Music 2: Instruments and Military Music. Edited by Eckhard Neubauer, Frankfurt am Main: Institut für Geschichte der Arabisch-Islamischen Wissenschaften an der Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität. Gazimihal, Mahmut R. 1935. “Az tanınmış tarihi bir halk sazı mey.” [Mey, a rarely-encountered historical folk instrument.] Bartın gazetesi 455–461. Bartın. Gökyay, Orhan Şaik. 1973. Dedem Korkudun kitabı [The book of my Dede Korkut]. Istanbul: Başbakanlık Kültür Müsteşarlığı Kültür Yayınları. Haykakan sovetakan hanragitaran [Armenian Soviet Encyclopedia].1977. Volume 3. Yerevan. Jenkins, Jean L., and Paul Rovsing Olsen. 1976. Music and Musical Instruments in the World of Islam. London: World of Islam Festival Publishing Co. Ltd. Karahasanoğlu, Songül. 2003. “Türk popüler müziği içinde kullanılan Türk müziği çalgıları.” [Turkish music instruments used in Turkish popular music.] Popüler müzik yazıları 1 (1): 127–140. Karahasanoğlu, Songül, and Gabriel Skoog. 2009, “Synthesizing Identity: Gestures of Filiation and Affiliation in Turkish Popular Music.” Asian Music 40 (2): 52–71. ——. 2011. “Innovative Neglect: Contextual Divergence and the Development of Mey in Turkey.” The Galpin Society Journal LXIV: 201–208. Koçarow, Yenok. 1977. Balaban mektebi [Balaban school]. Baku: Işık Matbaası. Levin, Theodore 1980. “Music in Modern Uzbekistan: The Convergence of Marxist Aesthetics and Central Asian Tradition.” Asian Music 12 (1): 149–158. Nercessian, Andy. 2001. The Duduk and National Identity in Armenia. London: The Scarecrow Press. Picken, Laurence. 1975. Folk Musical Instruments of Turkey. London: Oxford University Press. Racy, Jihad. 1994. “A Dialectical Perspective on Musical Instruments: The East Mediterranean Mijwiz.” Ethnomusicology 38 (1): 35–57.

206 • Songül Karahasanoğlu Rahmatov, Avaz. 1975. Azeri halk çalgı aletleri [Azeri folk instruments]. Baku: Işır. Vertkon, K. A., G. Blagodatov and E. Yazovitskaya, eds.1963. Atlas muzykalnyx instrymentov naradov SSSR [Atlas of the musical instruments of the people of the USSR]. Moscow: Muzyka.

Interviews Alihan Semedov, 2003, Istanbul. Baran Aşık, 2014, Istanbul. Cem Ekmen, 2014, Istanbul. Gürkan Çakmak, 2014, Istanbul.

Discography Gabriel, Peter. Us. Real World Records PGCD 7, 1992, compact disc. Gabriel, Peter. Passion: Music for the Last Temptation of Christ. Virgin RWCDR1. 2002, compact disc.

14 Global Connectivity and the Izmir Extreme-Metal Scene Aykut Çerezcioğlu

Attempting to understand globalization brings with it many serious questions. Among them: “Does globalization lead to monotyping or stereotyping?” This question forms the basis of many discussions. Tomlinson (1999) discusses globalization based on the concept of “complex connectivity.” In the context of this concept, he describes globalization as an empirical aspect of the modern world and strives to explain that globalization leads to the rapidly improving and condensing, reciprocal connections and connection networks which characterize modern life. Tomlinson cites McGrew’s (1992) description of globalization simply as the “condensation of global connectivity,” and implies that this concept defines a vast quantity of connections. McGrev says “nowadays, goods, capital, people, knowledge, images, crime, pollutants, drugs, fashions, and beliefs all readily flow across territorial boundaries. Transnational networks, social movements and relationships are extensive in all areas of human activity from the academic to the sexual” (quoted in Tomlinson 1999, 2). However, these “connectivity networks” are inherent to globalization. In other words, they are a means of reciprocal connectivity. This connectivity affects the nature of relations between the global and local, which are also affected by some of the components of modernity. These relationships can be seen in local music-scenes. The aim of this study is to focus on globalization in terms of the concept of this connectivity; to highlight the importance of connectivity vis-à-vis globalization; and to evaluate its impact on local/global dynamics in what are called extrememetal scenes. This study will analyze the Izmir extreme-metal scene within the terms of the concept of connectivity and the context of Appadurai’s (2006) “-scapes of global cultural flows” and seek to understand how the Izmir metal scene can be related to the global metal scene. Globalization as Cultural Flow Giddens (1990, 64) defines globalization as “the intensification of world-wide social relations which link distant localities in such a way that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away and vice versa.” Sreberny (2006, 605) argues that “for Giddens, what he calls ‘time-space distanciation’, a theme developed at length in Harvey (1989), helps to create complex relations between local involvements (circumstances of co-presence) and interactions across distance (connections of presence and absence).”

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According to Sreberny, “in this stretching process of relations there are numerous modes of connection between different regions and contexts” (2006, 605). For the identification of these modes, we can well use Appadurai’s (2006) conceptualization. Appadurai specifies “the five scapes” of global cultural flows as: The ethnoscape, mediascape, technoscape, finanscape, and ideoscape. Concerning identity and the sense of belonging, these scapes maintain the reciprocal flows of both visible economic and political elements and shared cultural elements. By the ethnoscape, he means the: landscape of persons who constitute the shifting world in which we live: tourists, immigrants, refugees, exiles, guest workers and other moving groups and individuals constitute an essential feature of the world and appear to affect the politics of (and between) nations to a hitherto unprecedented degree. (Appadurai 2006, 589) By the technoscape he means, “the global configuration, also ever fluid, of technology, both high and low, both mechanical and informational, now moves at high speeds across various kinds of previously impervious boundaries” (Appadurai 2006, 589). According to Appadurai: it is useful to speak as well of finanscapes, as the disposition of global capital is now a more mysterious, rapid and difficult landscape to follow than ever before as currency markets, national stock exchanges, and commodity speculations move megamonies through national turnstiles at blinding speed, with vast, absolute implications for small differences in percentage points and time units. (Appadurai 2006, 590) Additionally, the mediascapes and ideoscapes are closely related landscapes of images. Appadurai argues that: Mediascapes refer both to the distribution of the electronic capabilities to produce and disseminate information (newspapers, magazines, television stations, and film-production studios) which are now available to a growing number of private and public interests throughout the world, and to the images of the world created by these media. (Appadurai 2006, 590) Finally, Appadurai defines ideoscapes as “concatenations of images”: “but they are often directly political and frequently have to do with the ideologies of states and counter ideologies of movements explicitly oriented to capturing state power or a piece of it” (Appadurai 2006, 591). Global elements come into circulation worldwide via global cultural-flow scapes. According to Slobin: Appadurai’s angle of vision is novel and refreshing. Seeing things globally is helpful, as is avoiding monolithic answers: there is no overall sense of system, no hidden agency that

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controls the flow of culture. Things are highly kinetic and extremely volatile, not only because of economics, but also because the imagined world of an individual or group is itself an actor on the world stage. (Slobin 1993, 15): The Extreme-Metal Scene Extreme-metal as an umbrella term, indicates fragmentation within metal music and the emergence of new styles in the early 1980s. Kahn-Harris argues that: Heavy metal was developed in the late 1960s and early 1970s by bands such as Black Sabbath, Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin. But it was in the 1980s that heavy metal reached the apex of its popularity. Whereas the bands that emerged in the 1970s often had roots in rhythm and blues, from the late 1970s there emerged a generation of bands that took their primary inspiration from Metal itself. The so-called “new wave of British Heavy Metal”, led by bands such as Saxon, Def Leppard and Iron Maiden in the early 1980s, contributed enormously to the distinctiveness of Metal. This moment of coalescence in the early 1980s, in which many of the most identifiable aspects of heavy metal came together, was also the moment that began the process of the fragmentation of metal that was to reach its apotheosis in the late 1990s. (Kahn-Harris 2007, 2) Kahn-Harris (2007), specifies thrash metal, death metal, black metal, and doom metal as the four prominent sub-genres in the fragmentation of extreme-metal. The extrememetal scene refers to the collectivity of individuals sharing an interest in and drawing a shared identity from the music; consisting of musicians, bands, audience, record labels, and publications including magazines and fanzines published about the style. According to Cohen (1999): The term “scene” is commonly and loosely used by musicians and fans, music writers and researchers to refer to a group of the people who have something in common, such as a shared musical activity or taste. The term is perhaps most often applied to groups of people and organizations, situations and events involved with production and consumption of particular music genres and styles . . . however the term “scene” is also used to refer to music activity within specific geographical areas: for example, the Seattle rock scene, the South London rock scene, the New Zealand rock scene. (Cohen 1999, 239) According to Peterson and Bennet (2004, 7) Much recent work on local music scenes is less concerned with “organic” relationships between music and the cultural history of the locale than with the ways in which emergent scenes use music appropriated via global flows and networks to construct particular narratives of the local.

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The extreme-metal scene gains all of its constituent styles through the evolution of local metal scenes. Harris argues that: local scenes have also been important in its development. Local scenes have been particularly important in pioneering new styles that have gone on to be popular throughout the global scene. In the 1980s, the San Fransisco “Bay Area” scene was crucial in the development of thrash (involving bands such as Exodus and Metallica). In the late 1980s and early 1990s death metal was popularized via strong local scenes in Stockholm (involving bands such as Dismember and Entombed) and Tampa, Florida (involving bands such as Obituary and Deicide). In the mid-1990s, black metal was popularized through the Norwegian scene (involving bands such as Burzum and Emperor). (Harris 2000, 16) So, the global extreme-metal scene is influenced by the contributions of local scenes. Local scenes are influenced by the new styles created and they therefore start to produce these styles. They contribute to the development of these styles by using the characteristic elements of their local music, and then they can create new styles. These styles, again via global cultural flows, reach other local scenes. Peterson and Bennet (2004) make use of the concepts of “translocal” and “virtual” when describing the movement of local scenes beyond their own locality. According to Peterson and Bennet (2004: 6–7), “local scene corresponds most closely with the original notion of a scene as clustered around a specific geographic focus”, while “translocal scene refers to widely scattered local scenes drawn into regular communication around a distinctive form of music and lifestyle,” and finally they define a virtual scene as “a newly emergent formation in which people scattered across great physical spaces create the sense of scene via fanzines and increasingly, through the internet.” Appadurai’s scapes also function to explain the process of translocal and virtual characteristics becoming elements of local scenes. Global Connectivity and Izmir’s Extreme-metal Scene The data for this study is derived from the ethnographic material generated by studies on Izmir’s metal scene carried out between 2008 and 2011 (Çerezcioğlu, 2011). Although the historical range described in the text covers the period from the mid-1980s till 2011, current practices and connectivities are similar. The bands of Izmir’s metal scene produce their own songs “influenced by the force of being a metal band.” They share their singles, demos, and albums with the audience and the global metal scene through varied channels, particularly the internet. The bands perform at festivals organized by universities, and local and national organizations, as well as ones that take place abroad. The global scene is the primary motivator for these bands. Members of the Izmir scene work to establish themselves on the global scene. Musicians of the Izmir scene enjoy a presence on the global network and happily claim that they are, in their own words, “the same as metalheads anywhere in the world.”

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The global metal scene exhibits the features of an “imagined community” (Anderson 2006) which includes its members as part of a whole without having the need to physically meet each other, and it has many members from different parts of the world. The members of the Izmir extreme-metal scene are in a global relationship of connectivity with local scenes elsewhere. Members of the Izmir scene are influenced by other local scenes through global connectivity, while, at the same time, they share their own production with the global scene. Global flow scapes have an important influence on the Izmir scene while at the same time enabling it to make its presence felt globally. The metal scene in Izmir begin in the early 1980s. During these years, the mediascape constituted the most important context for introducing metal music to the city. Broadcasts by TRT (Turkish State television), TRT 3 radio and heavy-metal broadcast by EPT 1 (Greek State television) introduced metal to the audience in Izmir. These broadcasts were a significant influence on the musicians of Izmir’s metal community, many of whom are still respected within the scene. A further medium that fed the metal life of the city in the early 1990s was a local radiostation called Radyoaktif. Murat Yılmaz, one of the musicians of the time, emphasized the importance of Radyoaktif for the scene. Yılmaz stated that Radyoaktif, which was broadcasting only metal, rock, punk, and jazz, was indispensable for him and for many of his friends (personal communication, 05.04.10). Alper Ok, Virtual End’s guitarist, talks about the excitement that those broadcasts gave him: If a band was televised, we watched it. Just sat and watched. Because there was no other option. There was nowhere else broadcasting this music. There was no internet, there was nothing. There were only these broadcasts and there was only Stüdyo Ümit. We went to Stüdyo Ümit, we gave an order to Niyazi, we took a cassette with us and when a new album arrived, we had it copied onto that cassette. That day, we lost ourselves. (personal communication, 28.01.2010) In the late 1980s metal stores such as Stüdyo Ümit, Murat Plak, and Excalibur began to emerge. Thus, the distribution of extreme metal arrived in Izmir. According to Kahn-Harris (2007, 81) “the formalized accumulation of capital within the scene began in the 1980s, when some traders set up distros, in order to distribute demos, fanzines and, later, records and CDs.” An important practice of this network was the tape trading carried out in these shops. According to Hecker (2012, 40) “the Turkish scene’s integration into the global metal underground took place through tape trading.” Harris argues that “one particular mode of transmitting music, fanzines, and personal information through the (metal underground) network was the tape trading. The term describes an informal practice of exchanging and distributing recordings, mostly at a non-monetary level” (quoted in Hecker 2012, 40–41). Music stores have another important function for local scenes. Murat Yılmaz explains that these stores were a meeting point for the music’s listeners: Generally everyone used to meet at the front of Stüdyo Ümit, get the copy of the album which they’d ordered a week earlier, and order a new album. Then they used to wait for their friends or may be meet new people at the front of the shop, then go to Alsancak

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Kordon, drink some beer, and chat until evening. In the evenings, everyone used to gather in each others’ houses, listen to new albums from crackling cassette-recordings, and exchange them with each other. Or we used to sit in the neighborhood park, eat sunflower seeds and have a beer or wine with a tough-guy attitude and hum the catchiest parts of our favorite albums . . . (online personal communication, 05.04.10) Cohen (1999) speaks of central locations where local scene members gathered and interacted. These locations included record shops and rehearsal and recording studios; most of which were frequented by men who shared the jokes, jibes and jargon, and the myths, hype, and bravado, surrounding the bands and band-related activity (Cohen 1999, 241). In this manner, Stüdyo Ümit became a central location for a local scene which was still forming. “Avids,” who wanted to perform the music, also meet here. Many aspiring musicians who met at Stüdyo Ümit formed bands. Stüdyo Ümit also began to organize gigs that these bands could perform at. For example, Ümit organized the second “Speed Metal Attack,” the successor of the first, which had taken place in Istanbul. The concert had a huge attendance and bands with successful albums performed, such as Pentagram and Metafor. These bands, as well as their audience, coming from Istanbul as they did, had a great influence on the Izmir scene. As Hodkinson emphasizes in his study on the global goth scene (2004, 136), “shared tastes and a sense of identity existed in something of a circular relationship with face-to-face translocal interactions, which were induced by the tendency for individuals and groups frequently to travel outside their locality to goth gigs, festivals and shops.” This characterization also applies to the metal scene. The ethnoscape, formed by musicians involved in concerts and festivals, had an important role in the movement of the local elements of Izmir’s scene beyond the boundaries of their own locality. The Speed Metal Attack festival also motivated aspiring musicians in Izmir. Encouraged by this event, many of Izmir’s first metal bands started working more seriously. At high-school gigs they played a repertoire made up of their own songs. Murat Yılmaz emphasizes the importance of these gigs for the scene: High-school gigs encouraged me and many others to make music and start their own bands. For example, there was this Mystify and Negative Moves gig at the American College. Many people who came to that concert formed bands in the late 1990s and still today. Members of Negative Moves formed Portecho in the early 2000s. Members of Mystify later played in bands including Notwithstanding, Death Trap, Raindog, Tayga, Knightmare, Acrimony and Undone. Many musicians and people from the audience who came to that gig later formed bands. (personal communication, 05.04.10) All of the bands mentioned above are legendary in Izmir. With the high-school gigs and with Stüdyo Ümit’s support, many concerts were organized in places including the Fuar Open-Air Theater, the Fuar Paşabahçe Exhibition-Center, the Karşıyaka Open-Air Theater and L’Institut Français d’Izmir. For these concerts, many metal bands from outside Izmir, including Pentagram, Hazy Hill, Hole in the Wall, Pegasus, and Metalium came to the city.

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Thus members of the Izmir scene had the opportunity to meet these bands, and interaction between Izmir’s and the other Turkish scenes gradually increased. The number of concerts held during these years also increased. In 1992, there was a concert featuring Wyvren, Hole in the Wall, Cultus, and Idea. The Volvox concert in 1993, Deathroom in 1995, a concert featuring Climb, Notwithstanding, Sermon, and Astrahan in September 1999 and the Mayhem concert in 1999 were remarkable. The most important concerts in Izmir during the 1990s were the “Dark Days.” These featured death and blackmetal bands, and audiences from cities including Istanbul, Ankara, Bursa, and Eskisehir as well as Izmir. People coming to Izmir for these concerts brought musical practices which were new to Izmir as well as demos and albums from their own scenes. By putting on money-making shows, Izmir’s scene also began to build its own capital. Yücel Müzik, established in 1997, was the first company to pay for license rights for foreign albums. The company also released albums from Izmir bands, including Notwithstanding, Sermon, and Satanic Verse. Poem Müzik released the albums of the black-metal band Leviathan and death-metal band Affliction. These developments encouraged Izmir’s metal bands to make albums and become part of the national scene. In the 1990s, some agreements were made for the distribution of the recordings of Izmir’s bands internationally. These arrangements with foreign retailers and distributors were for records sold via mail order. In order to arrange such sales, Izmir labels told the foreign companies about the release of new recordings, available on request. This is how Izmir’s scene positioned itself globally via the finanscape. By the late 1990s, a decline in the number of gigs in the scene had begun. One cause of this decline was the “satanist murders.” In Istanbul in 1999, murder suspects in the killing of a young girl “not only did confess to having raped and killed the girl but also claimed to have received orders from Satan” (Hecker 2012, 91). This event put metal listeners and bands in Turkey under suspicion. Newspaper comment declared that metal adversely affected young people and warned families to protect their children from this music. And thus, live performances on the Izmir metal scene came to a halt. On the other hand, Izmir bands continued working in rehearsal and recording studios. Home-recording technology developed in these years. Increasing numbers of rehearsal studios and independent recordcompanies helped move the focus from live performance to recording. Fanzines published during the 1990s, such as The Headbangers and Woeful Cry made a big contribution to people’s knowledge of extreme-metal. Fanzines provided the connection between the scenes and the people involved in them, and carried information about both global and local scenes. Fanzines also functioned as newsletters containing information on various local scenes’ activities and bands. The discourse in fanzines turned the members of the scene into a collectivity speaking the language specific to the scene and encouraged further discourse. Members of Izmir’s scene learned the values of the global scene through fanzines. Members of the scene also learned to answer the questions: “How should a metalhead behave?” “What does being a metalhead mean?” “What is the general attitude of a metalhead?” “What is metal and its philosophy?” Values that embody the answers to these questions are the intellectual characteristics of the collectivity gathered around metal.

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Thus, the mediascape formed by fanzines and magazines maintains the ideoscape flow of the metal collectivity. Webzines, shared on the net since the early 2000s, began to allow the members of a local scene to follow the global scene at the same time. The fanzine, previously an element of the mediascape, is re-invented in the technoscape. A communication tool limited to a particular locality (the fanzine) gains translocal and virtual characteristics via the technoscape. Izmir’s metal scene, after a period of fanzine publication, shifted communicationsto the Internet, especially to MySpace and Facebook. The Internet became the most important means of communication, not only for the Izmir scene, but also generally for the Turkish scene. Erdinç Öztan from Guardinals explains that forum pages enabled the bands to communicate with their audience, find out about each other and what was going on, and promote themselves to the entire Turkish scene (personal communication, 11.02.2008). Metal scene “fanship,” learned from videoclips, live sound and video recordings, and magazines, now started coming to local scenes from the global scene via the Internet. Electronic means and communications making up the technoscape enabled people to connect with different localities without having to leave their own. Thus, the Internet changed the practices of recording music and sharing the recordings with members of the global scene. Izmir’s metal bands recorded their demos in local studios until the early 2000s. They were sold at the scene’s social hubs or at gigs. This practice started declining in the mid2000s. The Internet, especially MySpace and Facebook, had major roles in this decline. By the late 2000s, members of the the Izmir metal scene, as for the metal scene globally, shared their recordings through MySpace, giving them the means to share their recordings with local, national, and global scenes simultaneously. During these years, being well-positioned on MySpace meant being well-positioned locally and globally. It gave Izmir’s metal bands access to the global scene. MySpace was seen as a space featuring “the whole metal community.” The most successful metal bands (Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax, etc.) also had their own MySpace pages. It enabled musicians to connect with each other without physical interaction. Ahmet Gezer gives an example of this fact: Let me put it this way, you really get surprised when someone from Thailand sends you a comment, saying “are you guys really from Turkey?” When this guy from Thailand cannot believe that this kind of music can be made in Turkey and asks you, then you realize that many different people from many other places listen to your music. We receive comments not only from Thailand, but also from Russia, Italy, England, from the United States as well. (personal communication, 25.01.09) Bands say they received a level of recognition from the global metal scene via MySpace that they could not receive in Turkey.Thus, bands legitimized their presence on the metal scene and laid claim to belonging not only to the local, but also the global scene. This flow, maintained by the technoscape and formed by the Internet, provided global connectivity to the extreme-metal scene. Connectivity which is necessary for the sustainability and development of a global scene. The Internet also gave metal scenes ultra-local and

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virtual identities. Members of a music scene maintain translocal mobility via the Internet. Additionally, the internet changed the means of entrance to the music industry. As Peterson and Bennet argue: The rapid development of the Internet beginning in the mid-1990s has facilitated the democratization of music making, its distribution, and increased fan communication. It has also made possible music file sharing among musicians and fans around the world. Internet-based Web pages make it possible for any enterprising band to get the latest word out about upcoming appearances and promote its latest self-produced recordings without having to sign with a major record company. (Peterson and Bennet 2004, 6) Now, bands do not have to follow the traditional paths to success. One of the common moves of all the Izmir metal bands interviewed is to connect with record companies abroad via the Internet in order to gain exposure globally. Bands in the mid-2000s, including important Izmir bands of the time such as Gates of Eternity, Diabolical, Siranon, and Unleash started to present themselves globally and contact record companies through their MySpace pages. For example, Diabolical sent via the net their material which they called “the package” to record companies abroad. Another black-metal band Siranon, sent the first song they had recorded to record companies abroad the same way. Companies in Malaysia and Poland offered to release the band’s promo CD. Another company wanted to include Siranon in a compilation including songs of bands from different countries. Gore-grind band Rigor Mortis released their debut in Florida via connections they had established through the net. Death-metal band Affliction effectively used the net to get in touch with companies abroad. Additionally, Turkish bands were able to be booked for festivals and regular gigs abroad through the net. Bands from the metal scene connected with many different actors in the global music industry, including managers, promoters, sound engineers, producers, video directors, and photographers, via the net. For local metal bands it was important to work with such foreign actors. For example, Affliction sent the mixes for their second album to Sweden for mastering. A Swedish video-director listened to and liked the band’s songs on MySpace, contacted the band and then came to Turkey to shoot a video for one of their songs. The band, again via the net, made contact with promoters abroad and went on a European tour. Currently, though MySpace has completely faded from prominence, Izmir’s metal bands use many platforms to position themselves on the global scene, notably Facebook and YouTube as well as Soundcloud, Spotify, Reverbnation, Kickstarter, Pledge Music, crowd-funding, and Bandcamp. Conclusion With reference to the relationships between local and global, global connectivity becomes an essential tool of practical and theoretical globalization. Scenes formed by musicians from different localities, by means of global relationships connecting remote locations, add their

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own particular cultural perspective to other scenes they come into contact with as well as the global scene at large. Elements of global cultural flows formed within the ethnoscape, mediascape, technoscape, finanscape, and ideoscape also form the scape that enables global connectivity. Extreme-metal connectivity maintains interconnectivity through these scapes. Extreme-metal practices gain interlocal mobility through these scapes, and they provide the connectivity of the scene globally by carrying the activities of local scenes between each other. As of the 1980s, the Izmir metal scene, a local scene which used to be based on local interaction, aims to be involved in the global scene making use of its relationships with the international music industry. Izmir metal bands, which were connected to the music industry via album trades, tried to become known outside their localities with concerts in other cities and thus the Izmir metal scene transformed itself into a translocal scene. In the 1990s, the technoscape became the most functioning connecting scape for the global scene. Izmir’s scene members endeavoured to become part of the global scene using the net and social networks like Facebook and YouTube, as well as Soundcloud, Spotify, Reverbnation, Kickstarter, Pledge Music, crowd-funding, and Bandcamp. Bibliography Anderson, Benedict. 2006. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Appadurai, Arjun. 2006. “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy.” In Media and Cultural Studies Key Works, edited by Meenakshi Gigi Durham and Douglas M. Kellner, 584–604. UK: Blackwell Publishing. Cohen, Sarah. 1999. “Scenes.” In Key Terms in Popular Music and Culture, edited by Bruce Horner and Thomas Swiss, 239–251. USA: Blackwell Publishers. Çerezcioğlu, Aykut Barış. 2011. “Küreselleşme bağlamında extreme metal scene: İzmir ‘metal atmosferi’.” [The extreme metal scene in the context of globalization: metal atmosphere.] PhD diss., Dokuz Eylul University. Giddens, Anthony. 1990. Consequences of Modernity. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Harris, Keith. 2000. “ ‘Roots’: The Relationship between Global and Local within the Extreme Metal Scene.” Popular Music 19 (1): 13–30. Hecker, Pierre. 2012. Turkish Metal: Music, Meaning and Morality in a Muslim Society. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company. Hodkinson, Paul. 2004. “Translocal Connections in the Goth Scene.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennet and Richard A. Peterson, 131–149. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press. Kahn-Harris, Keith. 2007. Extreme Metal: Music and Culture on Edge. New York: Berg Publishers. Peterson, Richard, and Andy Bennet. 2004. “Introducing Music Scenes.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennet and Richard A. Peterson, 1–16. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press. Slobin, Mark. 1993. Subcultural Sounds. London: Wesleyan University Press. Sreberny, Annabelle. 2006. “The Global and the Local in International Communications.” In Media and Cultural Studies Key Works, edited by Meenakshi Gigi Durham and Douglas M. Kellner (revised edition), 604–626. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Tomlinson, John. 1999. Globalization and Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Interviews Ahmet Gezer, 25.01.2009, İzmir. Alper Ok, 28.01.2010, İzmir. Erdinç Öztan, 11.02.2008, İzmir. Murat Yılmaz, 05.04.2010 (online).

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Discography Affliction. Execution is Necessary, Poem Productions, 2007, Izmir, compact disc. Climb, The. Perfectly Nothing, Zihni Müzik, Istanbul, 1998, compact disc. Murder King. Gürültü kirliliği (Noise pollution), OnAir, Istanbul, 2014, compact disc. Pentagram. Trail Blazer, Nuclear Blast, 1992, Istanbul, compact disc.

Coda

15 Turkish Popular Music in Global Perspective Martin Stokes

The globalization and reflexivity debates of previous decades have left us aware that genuinely “global perspectives” might be hard to attain, but that certain kinds of critical cosmopolitanism might still be within our grasp (see Clifford 1986; Appiah 2007). What might a cosmopolitan perspective on Turkish popular music look like, then? As a non-Turkish scholar of Turkish music, this might be considered to come naturally to me, or to constitute an obvious goal, or position, on my part. But the matter is far from straightforward. Cosmopolitanism is, by nature, not programmatic. It tends to be dialogical, conversational, open-ended. It is committed only to the view that the national story has its limits, that “difference” and the appeal to authenticity must not have the final say. We start, necessarily, with reflection on personal trajectories, with stories about how we came to enter into a field of conversation, and where that conversation took us—often, far from our starting point. In that spirit, allow me to embark on some reminiscences. They might also be appropriate because, as this volume amply testifies, both Turkey and the field of Turkish popular music have changed very significantly since 1980. A closed music world, dominated by Statemade and State-controlled music culture has become a significantly more open and worldly space (see Değirmenci 2013). A world of scarcity has become one of abundance. A world understandable in terms of a handful of genres has become one of bewildering complexity. A locally-based music industry has, itself, globalized. On the face of it, Turkey’s music story would appear to be one of the triumphs of liberalism over the authoritarian and paranoid junta years that followed the military coup of 12 September 1980. Those who remember these years are often inclined to speak of Turkey’s broader transformation in such terms. There are other, less rosy, ways of interpreting this transformation. But let me start by trying to put them into some kind of personal perspective. In 1981, I joined a youth workcamp in a village near Bursa. This was the first time I had travelled such a distance. The trip took three days by train from London, three days in a train traveling at ever-decreasing speeds. By the time one reached Turkey, one could get out and trot alongside it, which we occasionally had to do to fill up our water bottles. These three days included a day watching growing numbers of Turkish Gastarbeiter boarding the train on our various stops in France, Switzerland, and Italy; a day watching smugglers energetically at work on the Italy–Yugoslavia border hiding jeans and coffee in the train compartment’s internal paneling; and a day watching peasants laboring under gigantic posters of Lenin in the Bulgarian countryside.

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On arrival in Istanbul, a layer of dust and grime covered almost everything. Almost every pane of glass had a crack in it. The lock on the door of my hotel room didn’t work, but the proprietor assured me that I shouldn’t worry. The shops were half empty. Coffee was unavailable. One smoked Birinci if one were poor, Maltepe or Samsun if one were better off. People got around by dolmuş or bus. One channel of television started broadcasting late in the afternoon, and finished after a few hours of dubbed films and soap operas with the national anthem, and images of soldiers at their task of defending the homeland. Foreigners like myself learning Turkish were told that there were only two words one really needed to know, and they both began with “y”: Yok and yasak (“there is none” and “forbidden”, respectively). I struggled to follow the news. But I could sense the authoritarianism, and anxiety, on the streets, in the cafés and in people’s homes. Topics of conversation revolved around the fantastic bounties and freedoms of Western-European life. Few people talked to me about job opportunities, visas, or work conditions for casual laborers, as would later be the case. Apart from Germany, “the West” was unreachable for almost everybody I met, a space of pure fantasy. Any discussion of politics would quickly dwindle into silence, or awkwardness, or an embarrassed intonation of official-sounding phrases. Football was the only significant topic of conversation. Evening TV schedules were, however, dominated by Dallas, dubbed into Turkish. On my first night in a village with an international work-camp, the entire assembly was invited by the muhtar (the elected head of the village) to watch the show in his house. I hardly ever watched it in England, so when I think about “Ceyar,” I still think of that baritone Turkish actor’s voice, and find old clips with Larry Hagman’s voice quite strange. The spoiled and manipulative “Lucy” provided a sexy image of the West’s excess and corruption. “Bobby,” by contrast, was a vision of loyalty, hard work, and decency. We laughed at the incongruity of our first encounter with Turkish culture. But Dallas was also a major topic of conversation in Turkey in 1981. It was only later that I realized how translatable the moral world of Dallas was into that of arabesk, another national preoccupation. We should not have been surprised. Arabesk accompanied me everywhere on that trip, in buses, taxis, dolmuşlar (sing. dolmuş); on films in VCRs playing in teashops; on cassettes playing in the background; and in stalls on the street. It may have been conspicuously absent from television and radio, on which I quickly learned to recognize the distinct sound worlds of the Turkish Radio and Television’s halk (folk) and sanat (art) music orchestras, choruses, and soloists. But I soon got to know about Ibrahim Tatlıses. Somebody taught me the words to “Bir mumdur” (One Candle), a hit at the time, and one easy to learn if you didn’t know much Turkish. I had no real plan in 1981—I was simply marking time after a year of school teaching before I went to university to study music. I had drifted to Turkey as a result of a mistake in a bookshop. I had resolved to do something different during what had been a rather dull and frustrating year. Having a vague interest in the Islamic world, I thought it would be fun to learn a Middle-Eastern language. I asked for a teach-yourself book on Arabic. The assistant in the bookshop said “We’ve got one for Turkish—that’s the same thing, isn’t it?” Not wanting to go back empty-handed, I bought it. Having started learning the language, I continued visiting for several years. These visits included a summer learning Turkish at Istanbul University’s Yabancı Diller Okulu (foreign-

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language school), in classes full of young Iraqis and Iranians fleeing their two countries’ protracted war. They also included several summers working as a tour guide for a British travel company. My circles in Turkey were almost exclusively rural or urban working-class and entirely male. I made friends with olive farmers in Bursa, shepherds in Van, carpetsellers in Kayseri, coppersmiths in Trabzon, music-shop owners in Şehzadebaşı Caddesi in Istanbul, railway workers, taxi drivers, bus drivers, imams, shop-keepers, policemen, minor officials, members of the küçükesnaf (small traders), and their apprentices, young men hanging around cafés either just about to do their military service, or just having returned from it. None spoke English. Very few had much in the way of a formal education. Very few were optimistic about life in Turkey. “What do you want to come here for?” was the almost universal question, accompanied by a vague and resigned gesture at their surroundings. “Look at the state of this place.” Arabesk, a depressed and exhausted music for, it seemed to me, a depressed and exhausted people, was an almost inevitable topic of research when I became a graduate student. Graduate studies took me from music to anthropology at Oxford, and an anthropology dominated by structuralism, Africa, and Wittgenstein. Ethnomusicology was almost unknown in the UK. Having been an undergraduate at Oxford, it was difficult to imagine going to Cambridge (where I might, for example, have studied with Laurence Picken). Belfast, where ethnomusicology was led by the legendary John Blacking, would have meant living in Northern Ireland during “the Troubles.” So, perhaps lazily, I stayed in Oxford. Gert Baumann’s work on music and migration in the Sudan was an important influence there. Michael Gilsenan’s arrival introduced me to broader fields of social theory, and a sophisticated anthropology of Middle-Eastern modernity. But Baumann left to take up a post in Amsterdam, and Gilsenan arrived quite a while after I had started. I was in the— then unnerving, but in retrospect, exciting, and energizing—position of having to make things up as I went along. As print media expanded and a limited quality of public discussion grew in the media, arabesk in the mid-1980s was becoming more clearly definable as “an issue.” A chance encounter led me to the TRT, initially through sports journalists, and then to the musical world of the historic radio building in Harbiye. Having a little more time and money at my disposal (though still not much), there was a subtle, but significant class shift in my circle of acquaintances. I got to know students, women as well as men. I began to spend time in bars as well as in cafés and teashops. I got to know more professional people— teachers, journalists, secretaries, media people—some on decent salaries. One of them even had his own car. This new world was still one in which people travelled little, worried greatly about military service (if they were men), and spoke hardly any English. And these were people who were profoundly concerned about arabesk, which they understood as a sign of backwardness, of disorder, of warped modernization (çarpık gelişme was the routine phrase at that time). A few academic books had come out in these—slowly liberalizing—years, which either named it as a problem (Eğribel 1984) or which provided sociological treatment (Güngör 1990). In the latter, as the title suggested, arabesk functioned more as a methodological exercise in taking seriously something deemed valueless. There seemed to be veiled sympathy, and a recognition that arabesk was, in some complex and perhaps problematic

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way, a mode of protest. But the tools were, quite simply, not at hand to see this as an imaginative universe, one that might be explored, as an anthropologist might, from within. There were relatively few models, at that time, of how one might approach arabesk in such terms. But when I had settled on it as a PhD topic, and had begun to inhabit this musical universe—learning and buying instruments, attending dershaneler (sing. dershane) (private specialist schools), chatting with people in shops, tracking down session musicians, gazino musicians, music teachers, music producers in Unkapanı—arabesk was a constant topic of conversation. An air of illegitimacy hung over it, but also, to use Herzfeld’s expression, “rueful self-recognition” (1997, 2). It was clear that, in talking about arabesk, people were also talking about national humiliation and impotency, about uncertain futures, about love, and about the authoritarianism and violence that hung over political life. It was impossible to make contact with the big names, or major players in the official media, despite protracted efforts. One has to recall a time in Istanbul before mobile phones, Facebook, and email, before the metro and the second bridge, when an appointment to meet somebody might mean spending most of the day on public transport, and, for what remained, simply hanging around and waiting for somebody who might or might not show up. And before I became a professor, I simply didn’t have the presence, or assertiveness, to cut through the protective rings of helpers whose job was to insulate important people from such demands. This was a huge disappointment at the time. But, again in retrospect, and from a critical point of view, it may have been advantageous. In anthropological terms, there were plenty of good intellectual reasons for choosing to approach cultural worlds from below, for ignoring the voice of experts, the professionally opinionated. The circles in which I was able to discuss and learn about arabesk were, in retrospect, ideal ones in which to think about the political and cultural dynamics of “the arabesk debate.” I was in at least some kind of a position to see its role in managing the violence of the coup years, and the subsequent transition to civilian rule. I was in some kind of position to talk about arabesk as a counter-narrative to the official story of Turkey’s Westernization and modernization. I would interpret this counter-narrative in terms owing something to Abu-Lughod’s work on Bedouin poetics (1986), something to Bourdieu’s Algerian work (1977), fashionable at the time. That is to say, as something that mediated the contradictions of the dominant cultural formation. My book The Arabesk Debate came out in 1992. It was, for the most part, generously reviewed. I only realize now the extent to which young academics are given the benefit of the doubt, particularly if they have been foolhardy or brave enough to take on an unusual topic. As it happened, my book coincided with Meral Özbek’s pathbreaking study of Orhan Gencebay (1992). We did not know one another at the time. Hers included lengthy and detailed interviews with Gencebay. It also involved a pioneering application of methods and theory from the Birmingham Cultural Studies school—perhaps the first appearance in Turkey of an explicitly Marxian cultural critique focused, in a sustained manner, on a working-class music. It was impressive, to say the least. So I found myself reflecting, heavily, on the limitations of my own book. I may havehad a more confident way of talking about the music, but my own efforts lacked the authenticating presence of Gencebay’s own commentary, and lacked Özbek’s sense of methodological

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mission. The narrow national focus—and the difficulty I had thinking comparatively— started to trouble me. In the meantime, books started appearing presenting some alternative, challenging, and non-reductive models of social scientific and critical thinking about popular music. Many of these emerged from popular music studies, a somewhat British-dominated field in those years, and the work of scholars like Sara Cohen, Jan Fairley, Philip Tagg, Simon Frith, Richard Middleton, Keith Negus, and Dave Hesmondhalgh; as well as a number who had emerged from American ethnomusicology like Christopher Waterman, Thomas Turino, Deborah Pacini-Hernandez, Virginia Danielson, and Mark Slobin. It was clearly time to move on. I went to Chicago in 1997. Regular trips to Turkey were now difficult, and I had a young family. It began to occur to me that now was the time to find out more about the “Arab music” that arabesk supposedly borrowed from and translated. In Chicago, I learned Arabic, studied oud with Issa Boulos and Simon Shaheen, and spent five years traveling to and doing research in Cairo. This had the ostensible aim of working on Abd al-Halim Hafiz. But more generally, I had begun to feel that this might be the way to start exploring popular music in broader regional terms, via cinema, radio, television, and new media. Abd al-Halim Hafiz, who had even been popular in China during the Cultural Revolution, seemed an excellent starting-point. Work on the subject of transnational media in the Middle East was already well underway, and I fell in with a group of radicallyminded American scholars—Ted Swedenburg, Joel Gordon, Walter Armbrust, Jessica Winegar among others—whose work provided historically and anthropologically-grounded models. I still struggled to see how one might think about circulation across major linguistic and political borders, such as those that separate Turkey from the Arab world. The formation of area studies in the USA, as elsewhere, tended to mean that one studied either the Arab world or the Turkish and Ottoman world, but not both. Family circumstances bought me back to the UK. In 2006 I taught a summer semester in the sociology department at Boğaziçi University in Istanbul. This was my first extended visit to Turkey in ten years. Everything had changed. I had to orient myself in a city that was almost unrecognizable. I had to get my head around the rise of the religious right. And I had to learn how to move around a media environment that had fundamentally changed. I had changed, too. I had to more or less relearn Turkish, which meant seeing familiar things afresh. I had become a professor, meaning that doors were open to me. My children had grown up, meaning that I had time to myself. So I found myself rethinking—and able to inquire about—Turkey’s popular music worlds from an entirely different angle, angles that would have been elusive or impossible in the 1980s and early 1990s. In particular, I found myself reflecting, once again, on the severe limitations of the nationally-framed explanations of arabesk circulating in the 1980s, and at play in my The Arabesk Debate. Questions about identity and ethnicity, for instance, were more or less impossible to consider at that time. Ibrahim Tatlıses’s Kurdishness, for instance, only became an issue towards the end of this decade, and discussions of it were couched in cautious terms. Tatlıses, as I recall, felt that he could act as some kind of cultural intermediary, with his ability to speak Turkish, Arabic, and Kurdish. The South East was already descending into an undeclared civil war, with the PKK on one side, and the Turkish army on the other. The role of arabesk as a space mediating Turkish and Kurdish popular song was, clearly, vital,

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but more or less invisible to an outside researcher in the 1980s. The place of Greek, Jewish, and Armenian popular music histories in Istanbul was, for somewhat similar reasons, invisible during those earlier years. These musical worlds interacted with others in the Greek, Jewish, and Armenian diasporas in North America, Europe, the then Soviet Union, Israel, and elsewhere in the Middle East. They were conduits of musical cosmopolitanism into arabesk in the 1980s, and thereby into Turkish pop. Onno Tunç, to take only one example, played a crucial role in the transformation of the sound of Sezen Aksu. But one needs to be able to locate Tunç in a loose network of diasporic Armenian musicians, negotiating cultural space for themselves under highly complex circumstances in France, North America, Lebanon, Soviet Armenia, and elsewhere (see AlAlajaji 2013). So the first question, even if one focused only on arabesk and related kinds of Turkish pop in the 1980s and 1990s, was one of acknowledging the diasporic relationships that cosmopolitanized the Turkish mediascape in this period. These kinds of questions have started to become both askable and answerable. They have also fed into performance practice, in the work of groups like Kardeş Türküler, and many others. A related question was one of how to put arabesk into some kind of regional perspective. What was it connected to? What kinds of music might be regarded as parallel developments in neighboring countries? Israeli musika mizrakhit (Seroussi and Regev 2004), Armenian rabiz (Adriaans 2012), Bulgarian and Macedonian chalga (Silverman 2012), Ottoman and Greek rembetika (Tragaki 2007), and Turkish arabesk have similar properties as kinds of vernacular cosmopolitanism, belittled, in each instance, by the intelligentsia as backward and polluted, neither properly national nor properly modern. All have involved musical relations with neighbors considered territorially threatening; neighbors whose modernity contrasts unfavorably with their own. All have involved musicians somewhat marginal to national centers of cultural power, somewhat straddling the nation’s boundaries. And all have involved some form of mediation, if not direct translation, of the Egyptian popular music of the 1940s and 1950s, the music of Abd alWahhab, Umm Kulthum, Abd al-Halim Hafiz, Sabah, Warda, Farid al-Atrash, with their string choruses, instrumental improvisations, and dance rhythms. All have flourished in spaces shaped by neoliberal transformation, and been appropriated by elites for obvious political purposes. All have been quite long-lived, whether in traditional (and revived, as in the case of rembetika) form, or whether translated into a modern pop idiom. As with arabesk (viz. the recent Fazil Say polemic), the debate is passed down from generation to generation. One can insist on seeing these as disconnected parallels, as isolated cultural responses in modernizing nation-states habituated to seeing themselves “in the imaginary waiting room of history” (Chakrabarty 2000) on Europe’s fringes. Or one can try and think more deeply about what might connect them. In part these are historical questions. In Turkey, slowly but surely, we are building up a picture of Jewish, Armenian, and Greek musical life in Istanbul and elsewhere. We are beginning to sense just how connected Jewish (Jackson 2013), Armenian (Yıldız 2013; Bilal 2013) Greek (Erol 2014), and Roma (Seeman 2006) musicians were to music outside Anatolia. Jewish, Greek, Armenian, and Roma musicians were important conduits of musical transformation in other parts of the Middle-East, and across the Balkans. If one puts them at the heart of things, rather than insisting on seeing

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them as disconnected national minorities, arabesk, chalga, mizrakhit, and rabiz all might be seen as related dialects, taking shape at slightly different times, and in slightly different ways in different national contexts. The question is sometimes framed in terms of traveling melodies. Adela Peeva’s enjoyable film about the song “Üsküdar’a gider iken” (On the Way to Üsküdar), officially entitled in English Whose is This Song? (2006) satirizes this approach. Peeva’s question is, of course, entirely unanswerable, and this is the obvious joke. Music circulates not just in terms of melodies which all might claim (or disclaim). It circulates in details of style, timbre, rhythmic sensibility, use of instruments and new musical technologies, performative ethos, and many other things that work at a far more general, and elusive level. The task of piecing together the diasporic and regional circuits of key musicians and music-industry figures, is, however, well underway. Such considerations, present in my own work through a combination of personal circumstances and shifting academic fashions over the last 35 years, bear heavily on the task of conceptualizing Turkish popular music from a “global” perspective. The issues line up in my mind as follows. First, we need to understand the global and regional circulation of non-Turkish musicians, instruments, and recordings. Second, we need to understand the global and regional circulation of Turkish musicians, instruments, and recordings (diaspora, exile, internal migration). Third, we need to consider moments of self-conscious globalization in Turkish popular music history, specific moments at which “Turkish” pop, rock, and sound art have oriented themselves to “the world.” My line of thought in these pages, thus far, insists that we approach these questions not from the point of view of scientific distance, and an “outsider’s perspective,” but from that of cosmopolitan conversation. It also suggests that we should not be too impatient. Political circumstances will always shape this conversation, creating possibilities at certain moments, closing them at others. There will always be limits, as well as opportunities. There may be further prolonged moments at which it will all grind to a halt, as it did in the early 1980s. Popular music studies in Turkey have little choice, in other words, but to play the long game. Let me reflect, in conclusion, on some of the perspectives I attempted to bring to bear on Zeki Müren, Orhan Gencebay, and Sezen Aksu in The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music (2010). This was heavily motivated by an attempt to reverse the nation-oriented priorities of The Arabesk Debate. It focused on three songs, Zeki Müren’s “Menekşelendi sular” (The Waters Went Purple), Orhan Gencebay’s “Batsın bu dünya” (A Curse on This World), and Sezen Aksu’s “Ne ağlarsın” (Why Cry?). These were, in part, windows through which I looked at a broader space of cultural intimacy, associated with the liberal crises of each of the 1950s, 1970s, and 1990s. And they were, in part, little networks of cosmopolitan intimacy in themselves, distributed across historical memory and national space. All of them forged identifications in terms of distinctly national emotions, a distinctly national “structure of feeling” (Williams 1977). They all employed a decidedly hybrid and cosmopolitan musical style to do so. Turkish art music of the 1950s drew on the Ottoman song tradition, the Westernizing influences of the late Ottoman period, and cosmopolitan popular song of the early Republican years. Composers and singers in this world had travelled, many with experience of the

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buoyant entertainment markets, recording and film industries of Cairo, then known as “the Paris of the Nile.” Zeki Müren’s national fame was, at the outset, cast in international terms—he was known, as one of his Turkish obituarists remarked, as “the Turkish Umm Kulthum.” With his camp theatrics, he might just as easily have been superficially referred to as “the Turkish Liberace.” Las Vegas was certainly a crucial point of cultural reference, too. But “Kahır mektubu” (Letter of Grief), his turn to arabesk in 1981, was a studied exercise in the Umm Kulthum–Abd al-Wahhab ughniyya (long song) style. It was the work of the composer and arranger, Muzaffer Özpınar, who had had a chance encounter with Umm Kulthum’s music in a Tunisian café in Paris. Urban art music in Turkey had, for decades, been synthesizing Western and MiddleEastern popular song practices, even as it was fighting for recognition as a “national” practice in the conservatories and State media. As well as the singers, the composers, producers, and instrumentalists, were highly-travelled, cosmopolitan figures, like Artaki Candan (Armenian), Haydar Tatlıyay (Roma), Yorgo Bacanos (Greek), and a great many others. Müren’s urbane cosmopolitanism was an important component of his “model citizenship” (Stokes 2010) in the Menderes years. The arabesk of the 1970s bought together south-eastern and central Anatolian folk styles, Arabic-language popular and classical song from Lebanon and Egypt, Indian film music, and the already complexly hybridized world of Turkish art music. Orhan Gencebay contributed a rather erudite sensibility, in which these diverse elements never simply blended, or sank to common denominators, but enabled code-switching, pastiche, and subtle forms of intertextuality. So the instrumental opening of “Batsın bu dünya” involves a kind of conversation between Western rock, ughniyya, flamenco, and Turkish folk, between electric organ, a violin chorus, acoustic guitar, and elektro saz. The arabesk debate was intensifying. Gencebay had, initially, to defend himself against detractors who saw this simply as unprincipled commercial opportunism, a matter of sticking Turkish words onto Arabic melodies. But as the political crisis of the later 1970s intensified, he found himself able to present his arabesk as the voice of the intelligent, moderate, liberal, national middle-ground, a self-presentation that chimed with the political rhetoric of the Özal years of the 1980s, and one that was to prove long-lived. Turkish pop of the 1990s was dominated by Sezen Aksu. In Düğün ve cenaze (Wedding and Funeral) (1997), Aksu translated Goran Bregović’s songs from Emir Kusturica’s films (mainly Underground and In the Time of the Gypsies), giving them a national and feminist twist. Bregović’s orchestra provided a Balkan brass-band sound, which was a departure; but in many ways the album followed the trajectory of her early 1980s collaborations with Onno Tunç. Tunç’s preferences were heavily shaped, as is well known, by his upbringing in Armenian music circles in Istanbul. This oriented him towards jazz and soul, towards a tightly-arranged, contrapuntal studio style, and towards a smooth Western vocal technique for Sezen Aksu (preferring equal temperament rather than makam intonation). Düğün ve cenaze was, among other albums of this period, marketed with international World Music as well as Turkish audiences in mind. They disconnected Anatolian folk music from the state’s archival project, and repositioned it in regional terms. Her “diva citizenship” (Berlant1997) provided alternative imaginings of national identity during a period of ferocious conflict in the South

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East, and of Turkey’s stumbling rise as a regional hegemon. Anatolian-ness can thereby be imagined as a space of patience and accommodation, of cultural neighborliness. What does a cosmopolitan sensitivity bring to these three “global” moments? In the first instance, it suggests that we do not have to see them as separate stories, about three different political moments and three different musical genres. It suggests we might think, instead, about connections and accumulations across a broader cultural field. We might try to see these three cases in terms of a continuing dialectic between national and global identification across the region. National feeling was restored in the Turkish crises of the 1950s, 1970s, and 1990s, or so I argued in The Republic of Love, by voices whose properties of worldliness and world-weariness conferred trust, a sense of wider and wiser citizenly horizons. These voices were persuasive and meaningful in Turkey precisely because they built on long-standing global circuits of musical exchange, of cosmopolitan musical knowledge. And these have much to do with the cultural routes travelled by Turkeys’ Armenians, Greeks, Jews, and Roma, from late Ottoman times to the early years of (especially) the Republic. It also has to do with cosmopolitan queer subcultures, a point I have merely been able to touch on here in connection with Zeki Müren, and about which, of course, much more needs to be known. It should also push us to see things comparatively. What might we learn to see in Turkish arabesk or Turkish pop through familiarity with mizrakhit and chalga, and vice-versa? And what might such comparison teach us about dissent and resistance? For if musical worldliness and world-weariness have shaped spaces of citizenly identification in Turkey, as I argued in The Republic of Love, might they also shape a broader regional conversation about power and its contestation in a region very hard hit by global neoliberalism over the last two decades? About how not only to interpret its signs, but to act on them? Bibliography Abu-Lughod, Lila. 1986. Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Adriaans, Rik. 2012. Sonorous Borders: National Cosmology and the Mediation of Collective Memory in Armenian Ethnopop. Amsterdam: AMB Diemen. Al-Alajaji, Sylvia. 2013. “Exilic Becomings: Post-Genocide Armenian Music in Lebanon.” Ethnomusicology 57 (2): 236–260. Appiah, Kwame Anthony. 2007. Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Berlant, Lauren. 1997. The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship. Durham, NC: Duke. Bilal, Melissa. 2013. “Thou Need’st Not Weep, for I Have Wept Full Sore: An Affective Genealogy of the Armenian Lullaby in Turkey.” PhD diss., University of Chicago. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 2000. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Clifford, James 1986. “Introduction: Partial Truths.” In Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George Marcus, 1–26. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Değirmenci, Koray. 2013. Creating Global Music in Turkey. Lanham, MD: Lexington. Eğribel, Ertan. 1984. Niçin arabesk değil? [Why not arabesk?]. Istanbul: Süreç. Erol, Merih, 2014. “The ‘Musical Question’ and the Educated Elite of Greek Orthodox Society in Late Nineteenth Century Constantinople.” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 32 (1): 133–163. Güngör, Nazife. 1990. Sosyokültürel açıdan arabesk müzik [Arabesk from a sociocultural perspective]. Ankara: Bilgi. Herzfeld, Michael. 1997. Cultural Intimacy: Social Poetics in the Nation-State. New York: Routledge.

230 • Martin Stokes Jackson, Maureen. 2013. Mixing Musics: Turkish Jewry and the Urban Landscape of a Sacred Song. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Özbek, Meral. 1992. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular culture and the arabesk of Orhan Gencebay]. Istanbul: İletişim. Seeman, Sonya. 2006. “Presenting ‘Gypsy’, Re-Presenting Roman: Towards an Archeology of Aesthetic Production and Social Identity.” Music and Anthropology 11. www.fondazionelevi.it/ma/index/number11/seeman/ see_0.htm_, accessed 18 August 2014. Seroussi, Edwin, and Regev Motti. 2004. Popular Music and National Culture in Israel. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Silverman, Carol. 2012. Romani Routes: Cultural Politics and Balkan Music in Diaspora.Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stokes, Martin. 1992. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon. ——. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Tragaki, Dafni. 2007. Rebetiko Worlds. Cambridge: Scholar Press. Williams, Raymond. 1977. Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yıldız, Burcu. 2013. “Construction of ‘National Identity’ in Armenian Music Historiography.” International Journal of Human Sciences 10 (1): 1524–1536.

Afterword Days of Anatolian Pop A Conversation with Cahit Berkay Tayfun Bilgin

Anatolian Pop (a.k.a. Anatolian rock), is a genre that merged sixties beat music with some of the rhythmic and melodic aspects of Turkish folk. Occasionally, Turkish folk instruments such as the bowed tambour, baglama, and ıklık were used in the genre. For many, it began with “Burçak tarlası” (Field of Vetch) sung by Tülay German. The band Moğollar, formed in 1967, was one of its pioneers and leading bands. Cahit Berkay (b.1946) is the only musician who has stayed throughout the band’s long career. He is also one of the best-known filmmusic composers of Turkish cinema, having composed the music for more than 200 films. His critically-acclaimed film compositions have been released as a series of albums, and retain a place in his concert repertoire. I interviewed Berkay in the lobby of an Izmir hotel on the 3rd of September 2014. He was in the city to play at an event celebrating the 100th year of Turkish cinema. TB: There was a sudden decline in the production of Anatolian Pop music following the military coup of 1980. What do you think were the reasons behind this? CB: The music before 1980 was, in a way, down-to-earth music. It was the sort of music that has a basis coming from life experience. It was mainly fed by Turkish folk music and classical Turkish music. Some produced new songs inspired by these genres, others performed existing songs and ballads with Western instruments. Actually the coup of 1980 aimed to cut the transfer of culture across generations. Unfortunately, they succeeded. When the flow of culture was interrupted, foreign culture began to fill the vacuum. Hollow imitations of foreign music began to appear on the market. When the lunch box was left empty, the music that followed was filled with foreign, alien elements. Audiences who were also left without any tradition took these and listened to them. Of course, if we don’t consider Turkey as limited to Istanbul, Ankara and Izmir, as we shouldn’t, our folk ballads are still popular in Anatolia. TB: How familiar were you with rural village culture when you set out to start Anatolian Pop?

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CB: I am from the countryside, actually. I grew up in a small village in Isparta. A relative of my father would walk around the village with a bağlama in his hand. I saw my first guitar when I came to Istanbul in 1959. Until then I played around with the mandolin and harmonica. Later I started playing professionally. TB: As the composer of numerous soundtracks for the movie industry, what qualities do you think film music should have? You witnessed the evolution of the Turkish movie industry over a long period. What are the expectations of directors and producers for film music? CB: The main expectation of the director or the producer from the composer is to help the film get across to the audience better. If it supports the action on the screen, makes the audience cry in a sad scene, or makes them jump with excitement, then it is successful. There is great difference between a film without the music and one after the music is added in terms of the impact it makes on the audience. When asked to do the music for a film, I first ask myself “what does this film want from me?” It first wants me to understand it, to solve it. Then it says “I have a story that is set in Istanbul” or “I am the film of a story that takes place in rural regions” or “my story takes place in the posh neighborhood of Nişantaşı.” It is important that you first understand and analyze the setting and the characters. When you do this, you are 50 percent done with figuring out where the soundtrack will go. The rest depends on your musical ability, synchronizing the music to the action. But if you ignore the nature of the film and say “this is what I want, this is how I do it”, they may even take the job away from you. TB: After 30 or 40 years, you still play tunes that you wrote for films in your concerts and you get great reactions. We even see these songs on the setlists of Moğollar concerts. Did the film producers ask you to write soundtracks that would be memorable? CB: I now have a film music orchestra. Even a symphonic one. Let me answer your question exactly. İrfan Ünal who is the owner of Akün Film that produced Bodrum hakimi (Master of Bodrum) and Dila hanım (Madame Dila) among others—and the producer generally comes before the director—comes and says “We’re doing such and such a movie. Can you do the music? Are you available? How much will you do it for?” After this stage you deal with the director. So İrfan once said to me: “Cahit, I want you to write music such that the audience will be whistling the tunes as they leave the theater.” I learned that this was a wrong approach many years later [laughter]. Anyway, it is true that the melodic aspect of the soundtracks I did in the 1970s was strong. Still when we play Selvi boylum al yazmalım (The Red-scarfed Girl like a Cypress) it really gets the audience going. It’s the same with Dila hatun (Mrs. Dila), Devlerin aşkı (Giants’ Love), and Çiçek Abbas (Abbas the Flower). Although generations have passed since the 1970s, recently we played at the Zeytinli Rock Festival before an audience of about 5,000, most between 20 and 25 years of age. In spite of their age, when I hit the first notes of Selvi boylum al yazmalım, it set off incredible applause. TB: The effect of the melodies is obvious, but how much of it was due to the demands of the producers? Was there such a demand other than for Bodrum Hakimi?

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CB: Almost all of them did. Actually, this led the way for me to Yeşilçam.1 I first worked on the Atıf Yılmaz film Deli Yusuf (Mad Yusuf, 1975). This can be interesting, but I wasn’t supposed to make the music for that film. They asked me to record sound effects. I added sounds like whoop as in cartoons when something flies up in the air. The car in the movie had feelings. It let the people it liked ride in it, and ejected the ones it didn’t, slammed the doors on them, etc. We filled these actions with sounds we created with a synthesizer. We did it with Uğur Dikmen.2 Then Atıf Yılmaz said, “Since you’ve started, there is a young couple in this movie that are in love with each other. They have emotional scenes. Can you compose music for these scenes?” There were also fight scenes in the film. He asked if I could also compose “Pow! Bang!” music for these. I thought we would do it immediately! I asked him “Do we have to do it now?” He said “No, when can you deliver?” I said “Is tomorrow all right?” [laughter]. He laughed too. He said “Cahit, are you crazy? How can you finish it by tomorrow?” It all seemed so simple to me that I said we could. We really went into the studio that day. Uğur Dikmen came and wrote down the notes. He is good on notation; also a great keyboard player. We made a hasty setup in the studio. In those days recordings were made on single track anyway. When we finished the job in two days, the word spread in Yeşilçam. The most valuable commodity in Yeşilçam was time. The release dates of 99 percent of the movies were announced even before the shooting began. Movies were shot in 20 days. This was invariable. Then in 10 days the sound recording, developing, editing, and printing was completed. If you asked for a week to work in as a musician, you had no chance. I usually did the music in 3–4 days. I would watch the film during the dubbing, and write the music. We would record right after the dub, sometimes before. We would follow the dialogues from the script. We would put an arrow on the film and write “music 1 begins” with a wax pencil. We would put a similar mark where it ended and write “music 1 ends.” Then a piece of leader film was added to the beginning and the end of the cut piece of film. We would punch holes in this to know where it started. When we saw these marks on the screen, it would be possible to sync the music with the scene. TB: What you describe is extremely difficult. To sync the music to the scene without a metronome. It needs a lot of practice. CB: Yes, it is difficult. We passed the practice phase pretty quickly though. During recording we secretly made gestures for “gas” or “brakes.” In this way we mastered the art of synchronizing the music to the scene. TB: Let’s get back to popular music. You have been in the popular music industry for a long time. The taste of the audience constantly changes. What is popular in the sixties is no longer so in the seventies. What do you suppose is the reason for this change in the tastes of the audience? And how much do you take these changes into account in your music? CB: I don’t usually say “people like this kind of music, let me do something along those lines.” I do what I know how to do best. I never intended to suit the times, neither in film, nor in popular music. I think it’s wrong because then you lose sincerity. My greatest principle when writing a song is that first I must like it, not other people. Of course this is not saying

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that I don’t care if they don’t like it. But there must be a feeling of genuine sincerity in my music. When it lacks this sincerity, even if it is popularly liked, it will disappear in a couple of months. Most of the music I write does not disappear in a couple of months. Or sometimes it doesn’t reach the audience. You make an album, there’s a hit song in it and the other 11 songs go to waste. Nowadays, the number of times your music videos are played on TV is also very important. It has turned into brainwashing. Society has no freedom in this sense. Kids start listening to music around ten, tastes are developed in the teens. Since there is a constant bombardment, kids can’t approach music with an open mind. For example, in Europe or America teens listen to teenie pop. But as they approach college age, they start appreciating more substantial, more poetic and richer styles of music. Some prefer jazz, others classical music. In our country this doesn’t happen. Even bank managers listen to Serdar Ortaç3 and belly-dance on tables. In the 1970s or in the 1990s when Moğollar got back together, rock musicians dominated the opening festivals or spring festivities in universities. Nowadays it is the popstars. This was done on purpose. Rock music has been hollowed out. Now there are groups that hang around claiming to be rock bands. TB: While working at home, do you experiment with different genres? I remember you used the synthesizer heavily in your award-winning work for the film Gizli Yüz (Hidden Face). CB: No, I usually don’t, only if the film demands it. The late Ömer Kavur requested it. He didn’t like melody. It was a mystery film anyway. When you don’t like melody, it is not normal for the music to have clear characteristics. And you can’t achieve this with the guitar. The equipment for creating effects were limited at the time. It could be done with electronic instruments. TB: Did you do it alone? CB: I did it alone. In my home studio. Let me tell you a little story. Again, we were working with Ömer Kavur, on the film “Kırık bir aşk hikayesi” (A Broken Love Story). I made a soundtrack rich in melody. We started recording, and the next day Ömer came and said, “Cahit, this piece is too melodic. You know I don’t like it that way. It doesn’t fit the movie.” Since for me the director is the god of the film, I said “OK Ömer.” We were going to meet the next day. I went home and started thinking, Kırık bir aşk hikayesi I had to find a broken melody for this. Then the melody came to me [he hums it]. The next day Ömer came, hugged and kissed me, etc. With that soundtrack, I received my second Golden Orange award.4 TB: What difference do you see between the Anatolian Pop that you started in the ’60s and what was presented as Anatolian Pop in the 1990s? CB: Of course it is difficult to compare the two eras. Then we had band music. Four or five of us would get together. Whoever composed music would come up with the melody. The drummer would decide on the rhythm, the keyboard player on the parts he would play and so on. Thus the song would be arranged by group effort. With the 1990s the

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arrangements started to come out of single individuals. Those days, in bands like Haramiler,5 Apaşlar6 or us Moğollar, the song would materialize during band practice. Multitrack tape recorders came out in the 1980s. We didn’t have such recording abilities. Today when putting together an album, let’s say there are ten instruments. Those ten musicians don’t even see each other face to face. They come and play individually. It wasn’t like that with us, we played all together. TB: Can you evaluate it not only from the production point of view, but in terms of the words, the attitude, the relationship with Western music? Because in those days you listened to “beat.” CB: Sure, let me say this: In 1965 the rule of the Golden Microphone7 contest held by Hürriyet newspaper was that you took a folk ballad or a classical Turkish song and played it with Western instruments. This really led bands in a certain direction. The main reasons why Moğollar stood out among the others and maybe the reasons we lasted this long are first our sincerity and second the inclusion of Anatolian tastes and instruments such as the bağlama, the bowed tambour and kabak kemane [a traditional 4-stringed bowed instrument]. These were always a part of the Moğollar sound. For example, people didn’t know that the bağlama could be played that way. There is still no-one who plays it quite the way I do. TB: Did you learn to play bağlama from a teacher? CB: I learned it on my own. I learned to play all of them on my own. The bowed tambour as well. TB: And that is a classical Turkish music instrument. CB: When you learn an instrument, it’s easier to learn the ones of the similar kind. The bowed tambour is a very unique instrument. The quest in your head is what’s important. Think of each instrument as a city. There are streets in it. If you internalize the modes and the scales you can do it. There are majors and minors. In our music we have nihavend, rast [two different kinds of maqams], etc. When you know these, which streets you choose to enter or avoid depends on the way you feel. TB: Do you use the traditional tuning of the bowed tambour? CB: Yes, I use the regular tuning. Only on the bağlama do I use a different tuning. I learned it from Orhan Gencebay. There are two or three different tuning systems. I play the long neck bağlama with the aşık [troubadour] tuning. From top to bottom—F#, E, A. TB: There was a long pause between the disbanding of Moğollar and the albums you made as Cahit Berkay-Uğur Dikmen-Cem Karaca.8 Did you only work on film music during this period?

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CB: I made some film music, but most of the time was spent abroad. After I completed my military service in 1976, I lived in France, Naples, Amsterdam, and Copenhagen until 1982. I made some film music when I came back on vacation. When I came to visit my mom and dad. All my friends were in movie circles. They would ask me and I would do it. TB: Did you record any albums in France? CB: We recorded three albums there. Of course as Moğollar. I also made the soundtrack for a film called Andrea in France, for Warner Bros. Funny, it was a soft porn flick. Why was I chosen? Half of the movie took place in Istanbul and the cameraman of the film was Cengiz Tacer. They heard about me from him. They listened to our Anatolian Pop album and they liked it. We walked into a studio in 1976, and my jaw dropped! They had converted a huge hangar into a sound studio. The film is run on a huge screen. There is a circle on the right bottom corner that zooms on the lips, to help synchronize the sound. Two channels go into sync, 46 tracks . . . In Turkey we recorded live on a single track. What’s more, they had a Hammond B-3, two Moog synthesizers, timpani, percussions . . .it was really something. TB: The songs that you made for Yeşilçam movies later found a place in popular music. Do you think the audience associates the songs with the films that they were written for? If you wrote the same music for a different film, would it come across the same? CB: No it wouldn’t. I watched the scenes of those pieces of music one by one. I would memorize the scenes. Then I would create a template of the scene, first second, tenth second and so on, here he stands up, here he begins to dance, etc. I would orchestrate the musical flow in my head, then write the notes accordingly. Then we would play. Now take Selvi boylum al yazmalım and put it into Dila hanım, and it wouldn’t be worth a penny. It’s all about the movie. The construction of the story, the setting, the actors, the lines, these things are very important. These are what inspire me. When I watch a film, I go inside it. If you don’t, you can’t master it. TB: Musicians that work on the popular music scene either lose popularity after a while or they experience burnout. You have been on the stage for 50 years. What kinds of strategies do you have to remain on top? CB: I am not sure I have the answer. But there is a Turkish saying: “You don’t sell snails in a Muslim neighborhood.” I never did this. I never made music for the liking of someone or other. There is one song I wrote like that. That one we did with Cem Karaca for the Golden Pigeon9 music contest: “Kahya Yahya” [Butler Yahya]. It was the antithesis of “Tamirci çırağı” [The Repairman’s Apprentice]. I specifically requested Cem to do so. We did something like that because we couldn’t pay the rent. We needed money, and there was a first prize of 10,000 Lira. We did it and we took it . . . [laughter]. TB: To what extent do you see yourself as part of folk music? You have been intertwined with it for years. You use folk music instruments such as cura, bağlama, ıklık, etc.

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CB: The musicians in our folksong [türkü] circles such as Erdal Erzincan, Arif Sağ, Musa Eroğlu and Hüseyin Turan are artists that are really folk musicians. I drew from folksong but I developed my own style. And those circles love this style of mine. TB: How is your relationship with them? How do they find your music? CB: We get along really well. There is one thing about my music that I am really proud of. White-collar people listen to my music, people who like folksong listen to it, people listen to it in the Southeast and the East. Moğollar and I have audiences in the most unlikely places. TB: Was it the same way in the 1960s? For example, did you go to the Southeast with Moğollar in those years? CB: Of course, in 1968, 1969, 1970 we went there. TB: From what I understand the “Golden Microphone” contest took place as a series of concerts? CB: It took place in 8–10 cities. For example, Diyarbakır was always one of them. But Erzincan, Erzurum were not. We went to those cities on tour. There was no TV then. There was the radio, but we were banned from the radio. They never played a single song of ours on the radio. We got some exposure in the newspapers with the Golden Microphone contest. TB: Did TRT censorship end after the Golden Microphone? CB: It was really funny. There were some rhythmic mistakes in our first album that won an award in France. I had bought the kabak kemane that I used on that album from the Grand Bazaar. It was a souvenir instrument. It didn’t stay tuned. You tuned it, but when you played, it would go out of tune again. In those days the TRT would reject any music that contained leftist, humane elements or touched subjects like labor, etc. using excuses such as faulty prosody, intonation problems and so on. They accepted our entire album because it won an award in France. With all the mistakes and faulty instruments . . . [laughter]. TB: Do you listen to folk music? Who do you listen to? CB: My passion for music began at the age of 5 or 6 when my father brought a radio from Istanbul. On Sundays around 10 there was Muzaffer Sarısözen’s10 program on Ankara radio. I don’t remember the name of it. In those days compilations of folksongs were popular. In each program he would air new songs and I would wait in anticipation. Short wave or long wave, with a lot of static on cloudy days. That’s when I started to listen to folk music. I still go to rock bars today, but if I have a Friday night free I go to Mektup Bar and listen to Ender Balkır. I enjoy it more. I listen to Hüseyin Turan,11 Musa Eroğlu.12

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I work with Arif Sağ13 at MESAM [The Turkish performing rights organization]. There are many more. But alongside these, I am a great fan of Joe Satriani. I continue to listen to all the music I enjoyed in the old days. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones, Traffic, Queen, Yes are some that come to mind. Among the newer stuff, I listen to Sting a lot. He became a modern classic. I listen to St. Germain for example. No connection to the rest. I enjoy music with a rich melodic structure. TB: In Turkey, especially in those days (the 1980s) opportunities for musicians to earn money were limited. You were lucky to have the opportunity to work in the film industry. The situation probably was not as acceptable for musicians who did not have that chance. CB: Most of them made career changes. TB: Do you think Anatolian Pop resulted in an increased interest in folk music? Such as hearing the songs in their Anatolian Pop version, then starting to listen to folk music? CB: I am sure it has. TB: Where did your music find the most appreciation? Was it only in big cities? Was it appreciated in rural areas as well? How was the reaction of the people in small towns to your concerts? CB: I played in front of an audience of 300,000 in Batman about 8 years ago. TB: Are people familiar with you in small villages? CB: They know the songs. For example they know Selvi boylum al yazmalım, but they don’t know that I wrote it. There is a small town near Bursa where they have a Crane Festival (Eskikaraağaç). We played there. We played in a small town in Yozgat called Bahadın, we played there. They were so crowded, a huge scene. TB: On the other hand, you play in Beyoğlu in Istanbul CB: The interest has been waning around here. We need to make a couple of new songs as Moğollar. The rock bars don’t fill up anymore. The young people that come to them do not know us. We are alive and well, we play, but you know we have a young population in our country. We have been detached from most of it. Only when they come and see us do they recognize who we are. For example, this year at the Zeytinli Rock Festival a young girl of 18 or 19 said, “I didn’t know you were here. I came for Mor ve Ötesi.”14 They had actually intended to stay outside until Mor ve Ötesi came on, but when they heard us they stayed. TB: There have been some changes in the band. Emrah Karaca, Cem Karaca’s son, took over the vocals. Your drummer changed after the passing of Engin Yörükoğlu. Are you considering some changes in the sound of the band as a result?

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CB: I consider a change in sound as squandering what you have. The important thing is that every band has a sound. Ours is evident. Keyboards, guitar, bağlama, tambours, etc. You need to add members to change the sound. Or you need to play a different instrument. I can understand doing a concert with the accompaniment of a string orchestra, but the band has an intrinsic sound. A rich sound created by five people, with the instruments they play. You can increase the vocals to two or three voices for example. For me, it is important to create something new with what you have in your hand. The main thing is the content of the song, the words, the rhythm, and the melodic structure. TB: Does Turgut Berkes still write the lyrics? CB: No, now Murat Güneş writes them. I, for example, made an album called Arda kalan [All That’s Left]. I wrote the music, Derya Petek sang. For that album Funda Tatar wrote the lyrics to some of the songs. Two of them were written by Murat Güneş. I am working on some myself, I already have two songs. We did not use the internet until now, but we will begin using it. When it comes to music videos, you shoot a video, you give it to Kral TV [long-running Turkish popular music TV channel]. They don’t ask for anything in the beginning, saying “you are legendary” etc. But then they run it for a few days then they stop. We will put out a CD but we will also have the album online. The CD will be for the enthusiasts. Turkey has straightened out a bit in the matter of copyright laws. YouTube made a legal agreement. All the companies that market music such as TTNet got licensed. There are going to be fewer and fewer problems in this regard. TB: Do you think Anatolian Pop will carry itself into the future with the same spirit as in the 1960s when it began? CB: It will if it remains in good hands. Like I said, it will live on as long as there are people who continue to keep it alive with sincerity. Guitar and bağlama side by side, this is unique to us. TB: Do you know of any young bands that follow this path? CB: There are, but their path is blocked. No one knows about them. Their work is on YouTube, if you can find it there. But nowadays, folksongs have adopted our sound. Guitar and bass are used in folk albums frequently. TB: Have you ever thought of writing a musical? CB: There is interest in a ballet project I was recently offered to work on. It is about Aşık Veysel [(1894–1973) the most renowned troubadour of the Republican period]. Let’s not get into detail, it may not materialize. If it does, it will be an Anatolian rock ballet. You may not have heard of this either, Rutkay Aziz adapted Haydarpaşa merdivenleri [Haydarpaşa—the main railway station for trains East- Stairs] for the stage eight years ago, and I wrote the music for it.

240 • Tayfun Bilgin

TB: Finally, how was your relationship with other bands and musicians on the Anatolian Pop scene of the 1960s? Did you spend time together outside music? CB: Sure, sure. The sixties were like that. There was competition yes, we used to go to each other’s concerts. Cem [Karaca] would come to our concerts, we would go to his. When he was with Apaşlar, we would go to bars and taverns together. TB: Who was around? CB: There was a Kadıköy [an Istanbul district popular with students on the Asian side] gang among the musicians at the time, a Fatih-Fındıkzade [conservative districts inside the old city walls] gang and a Beyoğlu [Istanbul’s downtown] gang. TB: Which one did you belong to? CB: We were a part of Beyoğlu. But those from Fatih and Kadıköy would all come to Bak Cafeteria in Taksim. There was another café the name of which I can’t remember. It was among the first cafés. Even Bülent Ersoy15 would come there in his black suit. Arda Uskan [(1947–2014) a well-known journalist] would come, may he rest in peace. He was a great guy. Cem, myself, Taner [Öngür],16 Hasan [Sel],17 Aziz [Azmet]18 would hang out together. Erkin [Koray]19 used to come as well. They were from Kadıköy. Or sometimes we would cross to the Anatolian side. We would show off to the girls on Bağdat Avenue. TB: Must have been great to be young in the 1960s. CB: Every era has its own beauty. But conditions were a little more relaxed compared with today. There were schools if you wanted to study, work if you wished to work. The country did not develop its economy and job opportunities at the same rate with the population increase. That’s the sort of country we live in, and I am sad to witness it. I have a daughter. She is thirty years old now. She made it though, she studied computer animation in New Zealand. Now she’s in Turkey. For two years she drew Madagascar Penguins and Kung-fu Panda. Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

Yeşilçam: Common name for the Turkish cinema industry. Yeşilçam is named after a street in the Beyoğlu district of Istanbul, once home to the offices of many film companies of the time. Uğur Dikmen (b.1947): Turkish keyboard player and composer. A long-time partner of Cahit Berkay in his film musics and other works. He is also a member of the Cem Karaca-Cahit Berkay-Uğur Dikmen trio. Serdar Ortaç: Turkish mainstream pop-star. His style, like many others, combines uncomplex mainstream electronic accompaniments with modal tunes recalling certain Turkish art makams. Golden Orange: Award of International Film Festival Antalya (formerly known as the Antalya Golden Orange Film Festival), organized since 1964. Haramiler: A short-lived Anatolian Pop band formed in Istanbul with keyboardist Uğur Dikmen. Apaşlar: They were a sixties band who became prominent by backing one of the leading artists of Anatolian pop, Cem Karaca. The Golden Microphone Contest: A song contest organized by Hürriyet, a national daily newspaper.

Days of Anatolian Pop • 241 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

Cem Karaca (1945–2004): Karaca was one of the most important figures of Anatolian pop with a career spanning over four decades with 16 albums and many singles. He collaborated with Cahit Berkay in the band Moğollar, and in the trio Cem Karaca-Cahit Berkay-Uğur Dikmen as well as a duo. The Golden Pigeon Music Contest: A national music contest held in Kusadasi, Aydın, since 1986. Muzaffer Sarısözen (1899–1963): A Turkish folk musician who collected a great number of folk songs from rural Anatolia and added them to the repertoire of National Radio. Hüseyin Turan (b.1967): A Turkish folk singer. Nowadays he pursues a solo career which first started with the acclaimed band Grup Laçin. Musa Eroğlu (b.1946): A Turkish folk singer and bağlama player. His series of albums with Arif Sağ and Muhlis Akarsu greatly helped to resurrect interest in Turkish folk music in Turkey. Arif Sağ (b.1945): A Turkish folk music artist, academician and former member of parliament. He founded a school of bağlama playing. His style of not using a pick (mızrap) and strumming by hand became a common technique. He made 24 albums, one of them a concerto for bağlama (composed by Cengiz Özdemir). Mor ve Ötesi: Turkish rock band formed in 1995. They represented Turkey in the 2008 Eurovision Song Contest. Bülent Ersoy (b.1952): A popular singer of mainstream Turkish art music and a transgender celebrity. She launched her career as a male singer and had sex reassignment surgery in 1981. Taner Öngür (b.1949): Moğollar’s bass player. He joined the band in 1970. In 1974 he left due to his growing interest in progressive rock. Öngür collaborated with other prominent bands and artists—Ersen ve Dadaşlar, Dervişan (with Cem Karaca)—of Anatolian pop as a bass and guitar player. He is still an active member of Moğollar. Hasan Sel: Bass player (prior to Tanger Öngür) and founding member of Moğollar. He played bass guitar with the band for a year and a half. Aziz Azmet (b.1947): The lead singer and founding member of Moğollar. He launched his career singing songs in English in another Anatolian pop band Silüetler. Then he founded Moğollar with Murat Ses, Hasan Sel and Cahit Berkay in 1967. In 1970 he left the band. After a short solo career, he changed his way of life and became a businessman. Erkin Koray (b.1941): An iconic Turkish musician with a career which began in 1962. He is highly-regarded for bringing new trends to Turkish music. Even though he is contemporaneous with other Anatolian pop artists, his style has never been considered a typical example of the genre. His interest in different styles such as arabesk, rock ’n’ roll and psychedelic music contributed to the development of his own style.

Discography Berkay, Cahit., Cem Karaca, and Uğur Dikmen. Yiyin efendiler (Go and Eat, You Masters). Özbir Plak, 1990, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Nerde kalmıştık (Where were We). Marşandiz 083, 1992, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Bindik bir alamete (We’ve Chosen a Way). Majör Müzik 21550, 1999, 331⁄3 rpm. Berkay, Cahit. Film müzikleri volüm I. Emre Plak 082, 1997, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Film müzikleri volüm II. Emre Plak, 1999, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Film müzikleri volüm III. Emre Plak H.E.115, 2001, compact disc. ——. Sinema bir mucizedir (OST) (Cinema’s a Miracle). RH Pozitif, 2005, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Toprak (Earth). Doublemoon, 2007, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Yağmurdan sonra (Özgün film müzikleri) (After the Rain) (original film music). Universal Müzik, 2009, 331⁄3 rpm. Berkay, Cahit, and Derya Petek. Arda kalan (All That’s Left). Universal Müzik, 2012, 331⁄3 rpm. Moğollar. Les Danses et rythmes de la Turquie d’hier â aujourd’hui. SVS 2698, 1972, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Hittite sun (Hittite Sun). RCA, 1975, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Ensemble d’Cappadocia. Diskotür DTLP 10019, 1976, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Mogollar ’94. Berkay-Bayar Müzik, 1994, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Dört renk (Four Colours). Emre Plak, 1996, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. 30. Yıl (The Thirtieth Year). Emre Plak, 1998, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. 1968–2000. Emre Plak, 2000, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Yürüdük durmadan (We Walked without Ever Stopping). Emre Plak, 2004, 331⁄3 rpm. ——. Umut yolunu bulur (Hope Finds Its Way). Emre Plak, 2009, 331⁄3 rpm.

A Selected Bibliography of Turkish Popular Music

Akçura, Gökhan. 2002. Gramofon çağı: Ivır zıvır tarihi 2 [The age of gramophone: History of knicknacks]. Istanbul: Om Yayınevi. Akgül, Özgür. 2008. Romanistanbul: Şehir, müzik ve bir dönüşüm öyküsü [Romanistanbul: City, music and history of a transformation]. Istanbul: Punto. Akın, Nur. 2002. 19. yüzyılın ikinci yarısında Galata ve Pera [Galata and Pera in the second half of the 19th century]. Istanbul: Literatür. Akkaya, Ayhan, and Fehmiye Çelik, eds. 2006. 60’lardan 70’lere 45’lik şarkılar [45 rpm song singles from the ’60s to the ’70s]. Istanbul: BGST Yayınları. Akman, A. Haşim. 1988. “Devlet müziğe nasıl bakıyor.” [How does the state consider music?] Yeni düşün 19: 51–52. Aksoy, Ozan E. 2006. “The Politicization of Kurdish Folk Songs in Turkey in the 1990s.” Music and Anthropology 11. Accessed February 28, 2013, http://levi.provincia.venezia.it/ma/index/ma_ind.htm. ——. 2014. “The Music and Multiple Identities of Kurdish Alevis from Turkey in Germany.” PhD diss., City University of New York. Alimdar, Selçuk. 2011. “On dokuzuncu yüzyıldan itibaren Osmanlı Devleti’nde batı müziği’nin benimsenmesi ve toplumsal sonuçları.” [The adoption of Western Music until the 19th century and its social consequences in the Ottoman State.] PhD diss., İstanbul Teknik Üniversitesi. And, Metin. 1964. A History of Theatre and Popular Entertainment in Turkey. Ankara: Forum Yayınları. Arkan, Özdemir (Kaptan). 1998. Beyoğlu: Kısa Geçmişi, Argosu [Beyoğlu: Its Short Past and Slang], Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Aytar, Volkan. 2011. “Tarihsel bir Eğlence Turu: Bizántion’dan İstanbul’a Süreklilik ve Kopuş.” [A Historical Tour of Entertainment: Continuity and Change from Bizántion to Istanbul.] In İstanbul’da Eğlence [Entertainment in Istanbul], edited by Volkan Aytar and Kübra Parmaksızoğlu, İstanbul: İstanbul Bilgi University Press. Aytar, Volkan and Kübra Parmaksızoğlu, eds. 2011. İstanbul’da eğlence [Entertainment in Istanbul]. Istanbul: İstanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları. Balkılıç, Özgür. 2009. Cumhuriyet, halk ve müzik: Türkiye’de müzik reformu 1922–1952 [The Republic, the people and the music: Musical reforms in Turkey 1922–1952]. Ankara: Tan. Bates, Eliot. 2010a. “Mixing for Parlak and Bowing for a Büyük Ses: The Aesthetics of Arranged Traditional Music in Turkey.” Ethnomusicology 54 (1): 81–105. ——. 2010b. Music in Turkey: Experiencing Music, Expressing Culture. New York: Oxford University Press. Bayrak, Mehmet. 2002. Kürt müziği, dansları ve şarkıları. Cilt 1 [The Kurdish music, dances, and songs. vol. 1]. Ankara: Öz-ge. Behar, Cem. 1988. “Bence kötü müzik yoktur kötü icra vardır.” [In my opinion there is no bad music, there is bad performance.] Yeni düşün 16: 39–41. ——. 1989. “Ben müzikte demokrasiden yanayım, tepeden inmeci kararlarla uygulanmak istenen ‘müzik politikalarından’ değil.” [I am in favor of democracy in music, not “musical policies” that are implemented by decisions from the top to the bottom.] Türkiye günlüğü 5: 56–57. Beken, Münir Nurettin. 1998. “Musicians, Audience and Power: The Changing Aesthetics in the Music at the Maksim Gazino of Istanbul.” PhD diss., University of Maryland. ——. 2003. “Aesthetics and Artistic Criticism at the Turkish Gazino.” Journal of Musical Anthropology of the Mediterranean 8: 8–19.

244 • Selected Bibliography ——. 2004. “Ethnicity and Identitiy in Music—a Case Study: Professional Musicians in İstanbul.” In Manifold Identities: Studies Music and Minorities, edited by Ursula Hemetek, Gerda Lechleitner, Inna Naroditskaya, and Anna Czekanowska, 181–190. Buckinghamshire: Cambridge Scholars Press. Belge, Murat, Muammer Sun, Çinuçen Tanrıkorur, Hilmi Yavuz, Faruk Yener, Ercüment Berker and Aydın Oran. 1980. Atatürk devrimleri ideolojisinin Türk müzik kültürüne doğrudan ve dolaylı etkileri: Açık oturum [The direct and indirect effects on Turkish music culture of the Atatürk reform ideology: Panel discussion]. Istanbul: Boğaziçi Üniversitesi Türk Müziği Kulübü Yayınları: 1. ——. 1985. “Orhan Gencebay’ın suskunluğu.” [Orhan Gencebay’s taciturnity.] Yeni gündem 5: 16–33. ——. 1990. “Toplumsal değişme ve arabesk.” [Social transformation and arabesk.] Birikim 17: 16–24. ——. 1998. Kantolar. Kalan Müzik CD booklet notes. Istanbul: Kalan Müzik. Beşiroğlu, Şehvar. 2003. “Türk müziği’nin yenileşme sürecinde yeni bir tür: Kantolar.” [A genre in the innovation process of Turkish music.] Folklor/edebiyat popüler müzik özel sayısı 9 (36): 69–80. Bilal, Melissa. 2013. “Thou Need’st Not Weep, for I Have Wept Full Sore: An Affective Genealogy of the Armenian Lullaby in Turkey.” PhD diss., University of Chicago. Çakmur, Barış. 2001. “Music Industry in Turkey: An Assessment in the Context of Political Economy of Cultural Production.” PhD diss., The Middle East Technical University. Canbazoğlu, Cumhur. 2009. Kentin türküsü: Anadolu pop-rock [Folk song of the city: Anatolian pop-rock]. Istanbul: Pan Yayıncılık. ——. 2002. “Türkiye’de müzik üretimi.” [Music production in Turkey.] Toplum ve bilim 94: 50–69. Değirmenci, Koray. 2011. “Local Music from out There’: Roman (Gypsy) Music as World Music in Turkey.” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 42 (1): 97–124. ——. 2013. Creating Global Music in Turkey. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Dilmener, Naim. 2003. Bak bir varmış bir yokmuş: Hafif Türk pop tarihi [Look, once upon a time: History of Turkish light pop]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. Dönmez, Banu Mustan. 2011. “Katharsis fenomeninin arabesk özelindeki görünümü.” [The appearance of the phenomenon of catharsis especially in arabesk.] Uluslararası insan bilimleri dergisi 8 (2): 228–249. Duben, Alen. 2011. “Istanbul: Music, Cultural Authenticity and Civility.” New Perspectives on Turkey 45: 237–245. Eğribel, Ertan. 1984. Niçin arabesk değil? [Why not arabesk?]. Istanbul: Süreç. Ergönültaş, Engin. 1979. “Orhan Gencebay’dan Ferdi Tayfur’a minibüs müziği.” [Minibus music from Orhan Gencebay to Ferdi Tayfur.] Devrimci savaşımda sanat emeği 15: 5–22. Erkal, Güven E. 2014. Saykodelik yıllar: Türkiye rock tarihi 1 [Psychodelic years: History of rock in Turkey]. Istanbul: Esen Kitap. Erol, Ayhan. 2002a. Popüler müziği anlamak: Kültürel kimlik bağlamında popüler müzikte anlam [Understanding popular music: Meaning in popular music in the context of cultural identity]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. ——. 2002b. “Bir dönemin popüler ikonu olarak Zeki Müren.” [Zeki Müren as a popular icon of a period.] In Biyografya 3, 43–98. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. ——. 2002c. “Türkiye’nin sosyo-kültürel ve müziksel değişim atmosferinde bir Aşık Mahzuni.” [Aşık Mahsuni, a figure in the socio-cultural and musical changing atmosphere of Turkey.] Folklor/Edebiyat 32: 275–286. ——. 2003. “İzmir rock scene: Rock bar müzisyenlerinin çok boyutlu habitusu.” [İzmir rock scene: Multidimensional habitus of rock bar musicians.] Popüler müzik araştırmaları dergisi 1: 50–86. ——. 2004. “The Arabesk and its significance in terms of bittersweet feelings.” In Sentiment doux-amer dans les musique du monde, edited by M. Demeuldre, 190–200. Paris: L’Harmattan. ——. 2008. “Change and Continuity in Alevi Musical Identity.” In The Human World and Musical Diversity, edited by R. Statelova, A. Rodel, P. Lozanka, I. Vlaeva and V. Dimov, 109–116. Sofia: Bulgarian Musicology Studies. ——. 2009. Müzik üzerine düşünmek [Thinking on music]. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. ——. 2011. “Understanding the Diversity of Islamic Identity in Turkey through Popular Music: The Global/Local Nexus.” Social Compass 58 (2): 187–202. ——. 2012. “Music, Power and Symbolic Violence: The Turkish State’s Music Policies during the Early Republican Period.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 15: 35–52. Erol, Merih, 2014. “The ‘Musical Question’ and the Educated Elite of Greek Orthodox Society in Late Nineteenth Century Constantinople.” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 32 (1):133–163. Folklor/Edebiyat, üç aylık kültür dergisi, cilt-9, sayı-36, 2003–4, Ankara. Garland, Lynda 2006. “Street Life in Constantinople: Women and the Carnivalesque.” In Byzantine Women: Varieties of Experience, AD 800–1200, edited by Lynda Garland, 163–176. Hampshire: Aldershot Publishing, Gedik, Ali C. 2009. “Popüler müzikte sınıf mücadelesi: Redictio Ad Absurdum.” [Class struggle in popular music: Redictio Ad Absurdum.] Gelenek: Aylık marksist dergi 103: 63–69. ——. 2010. “Türkiye’deki politik müziğin değişimi üzerine bir tartışma çerçevesi: ‘ey özgürlük!” [A Framework on the change of political music in Turkey.] Gelenek: Aylık marksist dergi 107: 61–82. ——. 2011. “Reflections on Popular Music Studies in Turkey.” IASPM@journal, e-Journal of International Association of Popular Music Studies (IASPM) 2 (1–2): 51–56. doi: 10.5429/2079-3871(2011)v2i1-2.6en.

Selected Bibliography • 245 Girgin, Gonca. 2015. 9/8 Roman dansı: Kültür, kimlik, dönüşüm ve yeniden inşa [9/8 Roman dance: Culture, identity, transformation and reconstruction]. Istanbul: Kolektif Kitap Greve, Martin. 2003. Die musik der imaginaren Turkei. Musik und musikleben im kontext der migration aus der Turkei nach Deutschland. Stuttgart/Weimar: Metzler-Verlag. Güngör, Nazife. 1990. Arabesk: Sosyokültürel açıdan arabesk müzik [Arabesk: Arabesk music from a socio-cultural perspective]. Ankara: Bilgi Yayınevi. Hall, Leslie. 1982. “Turkish Musical Culture.” Canadian Journal for Traditional Music 10 (1): 25–31. Hasgül, Necdet. 1996. “Cumhuriyet dönemi müzik politikaları.” [The music policies in the republican era.] Folklora doğru 62: 21–49. ——. 1996. “Türkiye Popüler Müzik Tarihinde ‘Anadolu Pop’ Akımının Yeri.” Folklora Doğru 62, 51–74. Hecker, Pierre. 2012. Turkish Metal: Music, Meaning and Morality in a Muslim Society. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company. Hiçyılmaz, Ergun. 1999. İstanbul Geceleri ve Kantolar [Istanbul Nights and Kantos], Istanbul: Sabah Kitapları. Işık, Caner, and Nuran Erol. 2002. Arabesk’in anlam dünyası: Müslüm Gürses örneği [Semantic world of arabesk: Case of Müslüm Gürses]. İstanbul: Bağlam Yayınları. İstanbul Ansiklopedisi. 1994. “Eğlence hayatı.” [Entertainment life.] In İstanbul ansiklopedisi [Encyclopedia of Istanbul] Vol. 4: 140–144. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Jackson, Maureen. 2013. Mixing Musics: Turkish Jewry and the Urban Landscape of a Sacred Song. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Kahyaoğlu, Orhan. 1994. “Türkiye’de pop müziğinin oluşumu ve tüketim ideolojisi: 1960–70.” [Consumption ideology and the emergence of pop music in Turkey: 1960–70.] Defter 7 (22): 51–71. Karahasanoğlu, Songül. 2003. “Türk popüler müziği içinde kullanılan Türk müziği çalgıları.” [Turkish music instruments used in Turkish popular music.] Popüler müzik yazıları 1(1): 127–140. Karahasanoğlu, Songül and Gabriel Skoog. 2009. “Synthesizing Identity: Gestures of Filiation and Affiliation in Turkish Popular Music.” Asian Music, 40 (2): 52–71. ——. 2011. “Innovative Neglect: Contextual Divergence and the Development of Mey in Turkey.” The Galpin Society Journal LXIV: 201–208. Karakayalı, Nedim. 1995. “Doğarken ölen: Hafif müzik ortamında ciddi bir proje olarak Orhan Gencebay.” [Stillborn: A serious light music project: Orhan Gencebay.] Toplum ve bilim 67: 136–156. Küçükkaplan, Uğur. 2013. Arabesk toplumsal ve müzikal bir analiz [A social and musical analysis of arabesk]. Istanbul: Ayrıntı Yayınları. Manuel, Peter. 1986. “Modal Harmony in Andalusian, Eastern European, and Turkish Syncretic Musics.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 21: 70–94. ——. 1988. Popular Musics of the Non-Western World: An Introductory Survey. New York: Oxford University Press. Markoff, Irene. 1994. “Popular Culture, State Ideology, and National Identity in Turkey: The Arabesk Polemic.” In Cultural Transitions in the Middle East, edited by Şerif Mardin, 225–236. Leiden, New York, Köln: E.J. Brill. Meriç, Murat. 2006. Pop dedik: Türkçe sözlü hafif batı müziği [Pop: Western light music with Turkish lyrics]. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları. ——. 2011. “Cumhuriyet dönemi İstanbul eğlence hayatına bir bakış.” [A look at Istanbul entertainment life during the republican period.] In İstanbul’da eğlence [Entertainment in İstanbul] edited by Volkan Aytar and Kübra Parmaksızoğlu,55–68. Istanbul: Istanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları. Meriç, Nevin 2009. Adab-ı Muaşeret: Osmanlı’da Gündelik Hayatın Değişimi [Etiquette: Tranformation of Daily Life under the Ottomans]. Istanbul: Kapı Yayınları. Mustan Dönmez, Banu. 2014. Alevi Müzik Uyanışı. Ankara: Gece Kitaplığı. Neubauer, Eckhard and Veronica Doubleday. 2005. “Islamic religious music.” In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, Accessed June 2014, www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/52787]. O’Connell, John Morgan. 2003. “Song Cycle: The Life and Death of the Turkish Gazel.” Ethnomusicology 47 (3): 399–414. ——. 2005a. “Sound Sense: Mediterranean Music from a Turkish Perspective.” In The Mediterranean in Music: Critical Perspectives, Common Concerns, Cultural Differences, edited by David Cooper and Kevin Dawe, 3–25. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. ——. 2005b. “In the Time of Alaturka: Identifying Difference in Musical Discourse.” Ethnomusicology 49(2): 177–205. ——. 2006. “The Mermaid of the Meyhane: The Legend of a Greek Singer in a Turkish Tavern.” In Music and the Sirens, edited by Linda Austern and Inna Naroditskaya, 273–293. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. ——. 2013. Alaturka: Style in Turkish Music (1923–1938). Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishers, SOAS Musicology Series.

246 • Selected Bibliography Ok, Akın. 1994. 68 Çığlıkları: Anadolu rock, Anadolu protest, Anadolu pop [The screams of 68: Anatolian rock, Anatolian protest, Anatolian pop]. Istanbul: Broy. Özbek, Meral. 1991. Popüler kültür ve Orhan Gencebay arabeski [Popular Culture and Orhan Gencebay’s arabesk]. Istanbul: İletişim. ——. 1997. “Arabesk Culture: A Case of Modernization and Popular Identity.” In Rethinking Modernity, and National Identity in Turkey, edited by Sibel Bozdoğan and Reşat Kasaba, 211–232. Washington: University of Washington Press. Özer, İlbeyi. 2006. Osmanlı’dan Cumhuriyet’e yaşam ve moda [Life and fashion from the Ottomans to the Republic]. Istanbul: Truva Yayınları. Özer, Yetkin. 2003. “Crossing the Boundaries: The Akdeniz Scene and Mediterraneannes.” In Mediterranean Mosaic: Popular Music and Global Sounds, edited by Goffredo Plastino, 199–220. New York and London: Routledge. Paçacı, Gönül, ed. 1999. Cumhuriyetin sesleri [Sounds of the Republic]. Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları. Sakar, Mümtaz Hakan. 2014. Rock ve Özlem Tekin. İstanbul: Gece Kitaplığı. Seeman, Sonia Tamar. 2002. “You’re Roman! Music and Identity in Turkish Roman Communities.” PhD diss., Los Angeles: University of California. ——. 2008. “Sunuş.” [Introduction] Romanistanbul: Şehir, müzik ve bir dönüşüm öyküsü [Romanistanbul: City, music and a transformation story]. by Ozgür Akgül. Istanbul: Punto. Şenyapılı, Önder. 1981. “Pop müzik.” [Pop music.] Sanat olayı 6 (6): 48–51. Solomon, Tom. 2005. “ ‘Living Underground is Tough’: Authenticity and Locality in the Hip-hop Community in Istanbul, Turkey.” Popular Music 24 (1): 1–20. ——. 2006. “Whose Hybridity? Whose Diaspora? Agency and Identity in Transnational Musics.” Paper presented at ICTM Colloquium at Wesleyan University, Middletown, CT, May 2006. ——. 2006. “Hardcore Muslims: Islamic Themes in Turkish Rap in Diaspora and in the Homeland.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 38: 59–78. ——. 2009. “Berlin-Frankfurt-Istanbul: Turkish Hip-Hop in Motion.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 12 (3): 305–327. Stokes, Martin. 1992a. The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians in Modern Turkey. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ——. 1992b. “Islam, the Turkish State and Arabesk.” Popular Music 11 (12): 213–227. ——. 1997. “Voices and Places: History, Repetition and the Musical Imagination.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 3(4): 673–690. ——. 1999. “Sounding Out: The Culture Industries and the Globalization of Istanbul.” In Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local, edited by Çağlar Keyder, 121–142. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. ——. 2000. “East, West and Arabesk.” In Western Music and Its Others, edited by Georgia Born and David Hesmondhalgh, 213–234. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. ——. 2010. The Republic of Love: Cultural Intimacy in Turkish Popular Music. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Tekelioğlu, Orhan. 1995. “Türk popunun tarihsel arka planı.” [The historical background of Turkish pop.] Toplum ve bilim 67: 157–178. ——. 1996. “The Rise of a Spontaneous Synthesis: Historical Background of Turkish Popular Music.” Middle Eastern Studies 32 (1): 194–216. ——. 1997. “Resistance through Music: A Look at the Turkish Popular Music Scene in the 1950s.” IPSA, XVIIth World Congress, August, 17–21. ——. 2001. “Modernizing Reforms and Turkish Music in the 1930s.” Turkish Studies 2(1): 93–108. ——. 2006. Pop yazılar: Varoştan merkeze yürüyen “halk zevki” [Pop writings: Public pleasure walking from suburb to center]. Istanbul: Telos Yay. Tez, Zeki. 2009. Gündelik yaşam ve eğlencenin kültürel tarihi [A cultural history of everyday life and entertainment]. Istanbul: Doruk Yayınları. Tireli, Münir. 2005. Bir Metamorfoz Hikayesi Türkiye’de Grup Müziği 1957–1980. İstanbul: Arkaplan Yayınları. ——. 2007. Türkiye’de Grup Müziği: 1980’ler. İstanbul: Arkaplan Yayınları. Tufur, Melis. 1995. “Pop müziğin altın çağı mı?” [Is it the golden age of pop music?] Makro ekonomi, Ocak, 11–23. Tunca, Hulusi. 2007. Hey Gidi Günler/70’li Yıllar. İstanbul: C Blok Yayıncılık. Tura, Yalçın. 1985. “Cumhuriyet döneminde Türk musikisi.” [Turkish music in the republican period.] Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türkiye Ansiklopedisi. Cilt 6. 1510–1516. Istanbul: İletişim. Ünlü, Cemal. 1998. Kantolar. Kalan Müzik Arşivi CD booklet notes. Istanbul: Kalan Müzik. Üstel, Füsun. 1994. “1920’li ve 30’lu yıllarda ‘milli musiki’ve ‘musiki inkılabı’.” [National music and music reform in the 1920s and 30s.] Defter 7 (22): 41–57. Way, Lyndon C. 2012. “Pop’s Subversive Potential: Turkish Popular Music Videos as a Multi-modal Site of Resistance.” Multimodal Communication 1 (3): 251–275.

Selected Bibliography • 247 ——. 2013. “Discourses of Popular Politics, War and Authenticity in Turkish Pop Music.” Social Semiotics 23 (5): 715–734. ——. 2014. “Özgünlük ve direniş hikayeleri: Popüler müzikte protesto potansiyeli.” [Stories of originality and resistance: Potential of protest in popular music.] Kültür ve iletişim dergisi 17 (1): 39–68. ——. 2015. “Spaces of Protest in Turkish Popular Music.” In Relocating Popular Music, edited by Ewa Mazierska and Georgina Gregory, 27–43. London: Palgrave. Yaraman, Ayşegül, ed. 2002. Biyografya 3 Zeki Müren. Istanbul: Bağlam Yayıncılık. Yarar, Betül. 2008. “Politics of/and Popular Music: An Analysis of the History of Arabesk Music from the 1960s to the 1990s in Turkey.” Cultural Studies 22 (1): 35–79. ——. 2009. Politics and/of Popular Culture: Football and Arabesk Music in the Times of the New Right in Turkey. Saarbrüken, Germany: VDM Publishing. Yıldız, Burcu. 2013. “Construction of ‘National Identity’ in Armenian Music Historiography.” International Journal of Human Sciences 10 (1), 1524–1536. Yurga, Cemal. 2002. 20. Yüzyılda Türkiye’de Popüler Müzikler. Ankara: Pegem Akademi Yayıncılık.

Notes on Contributors

Özgür Akgül was born in 1978 in Istanbul. He graduated with an economics diploma at Boğaziçi University. During and after his studies he performed with bands, composed for theaters and several movie productions. He wrote his master thesis in musicology about Roma musicians in Istanbul (Istanbul Technical University) which was published in December 2008 as a book called Romanistanbul. He studied film music and sound design at the Filmakademie Baden Wuerttemberg-Germany. While composing for several film projects including Deli Deli Olma (feature film—46th Antalya Film Festival Best Music Award, 2009), he also directed a music-documentary with the same title as the book it was based on, Romanistanbul. He recently founded Stüdyo Kolektif, a collective initiative focusing on film music and sound design. Ozan Aksoy is trained in the bağlama (or saz) (long-necked lute) by his father who is also a musician. Aksoy then developed an interest in the rich musical tradition of Turkey while attending the Boğaziçi University in Istanbul. There he joined the University’s Folk Club and the band Kardeş Türküler as an arranger and a performer. As a Ph.D. candidate in Ethnomusicology at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, Ozan has published articles in the Journal Music and Anthropology, has been teaching World Music classes at Hunter College in New York and is the founder and the director of the CUNY Middle-Eastern Music Ensemble. Volkan Aytar received his B.A. degree in Political Science and Public Administration from Bilkent University, Ankara. As a Fulbright scholar, he received an M.A. degree in Sociology and a Certificate in Global Studies from the State University of New York (SUNY) at Binghamton. He taught at Sabanci and Bahcesehir Universities in Istanbul. Between 2004 and 2009, he was an administrator and researcher at the Turkish Economic and Social Studies Foundation (TESEV). He served as an Editorial Board member of Istanbul Journal of Urban Culture and project advisor of the European Media and Cultural Studies (EMCS) M.A. Program established jointly with Bahçeşehir University, Potsdam University, and Potsdam Technology University in Berlin. Between 2009–2010 he was at the University of Amsterdam and the Max Planck Institute in Germany. He currently teaches at the New Media Department, Faculty of Communication and Bahçeşehir University, Istanbul.

250 • Notes on Contributors

Özgür Balkılıç is a Ph.D. Candidate in the Tri-University Graduate Program in History. He graduated from the Middle-East Technical University, Ankara, in 2003 from the Department of Political Science and Public Administration. He took his M.A. from the Interdisciplinary Program of Media and Cultural Studies at METU, in 2005. He is currently working on his Ph.D. dissertation entitled Strikes as Form of Contentious Politics in Turkey, 1960–1980: Structures, Agents and Political Opportunities. His main research interests are in Twentieth Century Turkish History (including Social Movements, Nationalism and Nationalist Movements), Historical Sociology, and Theories of History. Cahit Berkay was born in Isparta, 1946. Besides his reputation as a film music composer, he is notable as a founder member of famous Anatolian Pop band Moğollar. He pioneered a new hybrid musical genre by bringing many Turkish instruments (bowed tambur, cura, bağlama) into his music along with his main instrument, guitar. Moğollar was awarded the Académie Charles Cros Prix in 1971, a year after Jimi Hendrix received the same award. After many well-selling records with different famous singers in Turkey, the band settled in France and continued their work in different line-ups, until their split in 1976. Until the band’s reunion in 1993, Berkay wrote the music for over 200 Turkish films, and received several awards. Ş. Şehvar Beşiroğlu (1965–2017) was a kanun and çeng (harp) player. She performed with the Lale Women Ensemble, the Romeiko Ensemble and the Eurasia Ensemble in the UK, the USA and the Middle East. She was a member of the Kantemir Ensemble, the Pera Ensemble, the Hattusha Ensemble and İzmir Barok. She performed in Yalçın Tura’s Kantemir Edvarı. In 1999, as Visiting Scholar at the Harvard University Center for Middle-East Studies she worked on an Ottoman Music project with Prof. Dr Cemal Kafadar. Since 1986 she was teaching kanun, musicology, music history, organology, world-music cultures at undergraduate level, and ethnomusicology, systematic musicology, Turkish Maqam Music, Music and Gender, Music in Mediterranean Cultures at graduate level at Istanbul Technical University, the Turkish Music State Conservatory Department of Musicology and the Center for Advanced Resarch in Music. Tayfun Bilgin was born in Ankara, 1976. He studied cinema and TV at Marmara University’s Fine Arts Faculty. Afterwards he earned an MSc. in musicology at Dokuz Eylül University, with the work Anatolian Pop and Cultural Modernization in Turkey: The Case of Mogollar Band in Turkish. In 2008 he began lecturing at Izmir Economy University, Yasar University and the Dokuz Eylül University of İzmir. He is pursuing his Ph.D. at Dokuz Eylül University. Aykut Çerezcioğlu is Associate Professor of Musicology in the Department of Musicology at Dokuz Eylül University. His research interests include popular music, and specifically Extreme Metal music in a global context. He received his Ph.D. with his dissertation titled, Extreme Metal Scene on Global Context: İzmir Metal Scene in Turkish. Koray Değirmenci is Associate Professor of Sociology at Erciyes University. He has published on music, photography, and urban sociology in several journals and edited books including

Notes on Contributors • 251

Turkish Studies, the International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music, the South African Journal of Philosophy, and the Aesthetic Dimension of Visual Culture. His first book, Creating Global Music in Turkey, was published by Lexington Books in 2013. Levent Ergun is Assistant Professor of Musicology at Dokuz Eylül University in İzmir, where he teaches ethnography of music, Turkish folk music and popular music. He holds a Ph.D. in ethnomusicology (2004). Ali Ergur has received a B.A. in Public Administration and an M.A. in Social Sciences at Marmara University. He completed his doctoral thesis at Middle-East Technical University in 1997. He is currently professor in the Sociology Department of Galatasaray University. His main areas of interest are the sociology of technology and communication, consumption, surveillance processes, post-industrial society and the sociology of music. Among his published books, two consist of essays on musical issues in Turkey and the world. He is the co-author of an article published in Musicae Scientiae on the modernization of Turkish music. Ayhan Erol is Professor of Musicology at Dokuz Eylül University in Izmir, where he teaches courses on theory of ethnomusicology, cultural studies, sociology of music, music history, and popular-music studies. His research interests include Turkish popular-music history, cultural identity and music, folk-music revivals, Islamic [pop] music, and Alevi music. He is author of two books: Popüler Müziği Anlamak (2002) and Müzik Üzerine Düşünmek (2009). His work has appeared in renowned scholarly journals, including the Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, Middle Eastern Studies, Social Compass, and European Journal of Cultural Studies. Dr. Erol has also contributed to several English-speaking volumes on popular music and Alevi musical culture. Ali C. Gedik is Associate Professor of Musicology at Dokuz Eylül University where he teaches courses on musical life in the Ottoman era, music policies during the Republican period, systematic musicology, and world music. He received a B.Sc. Degree in Electrical Engineering from Hacettepe University, Ankara, in 1996, and an M.Sc. Degree in Musicology from Dokuz Eylül University, Izmir, in 2007. He earned a Ph.D. degree in Electrical Engineering at Izmir Institute of Technology, Izmir, in 2012 with a dissertation entitled Automatic Transcription of Traditional Turkish Art Music: A Computational Ethnomusicology Approach. He is the co-founder and editor of the Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies. He is the president of Society of Interdisciplinary Musicology by 2016 and the secretary of the Turkish IASPM branch since 2009. He has published in the Journal of New Music Research, IASPM@Journal, Signal Processing, IEEE Transactions on Audio, Speech and Language Processing and in the Marxist journal Gelenek. He is the editor of the book Marxist Inquiries on Science: Marxism and Two Cultures (2015) published in Turkish. Gonca Girgin is lecturer at the Musicology Department of the Turkish Music State Conservatory, Istanbul Technical University, since 2009. She specializes in ethnicity, identity, and music/dance, and performance theories. Her M.A. and Ph.D. theses focus on Romany

252 • Notes on Contributors

music and dance in Turkey in terms of the politic manipulations in the musical field, and body politics and socio-political orientations in the dance field. She is the author of a book on musical notation systems (2004), and her book on Romany dance and body politics is forthcoming. She plays percussion and kanun in many national and international contexts. Songül Karahasanoğlu is a professor at the Turkish Music State Conservatory of Istanbul Technical University, where she teaches ethnomusicology and popular music. She is the author of the reference works Muş Türküleri ve Oyun Havaları and Mey ve Metodu. She continues her research and publications in the area of Turkish popular music, Islam and music, folk music, Turkish folk instruments, and is a well-known mey performer. Martin Stokes is King Edward Professor of Music. He studied first music, then social anthropology at Oxford. He taught at The Queen’s University of Belfast (1989–1997), the University of Chicago (1997–2007) and Oxford University (2007–2012). He was a Howard Foundation Fellow at the Chicago Humanities Institute in 2002–3. He has been a visiting professor at Boğaziçi University in Istanbul on two occasions, and currently holds an honorary professorship in the Department of Arts and Cultural Studies at the University of Copenhagen. In 2013 he gave the Bloch Lectures at the University of California, Berkeley. Betül Yarar is currently researcher at Faculty of Education, Universität Bremen. She received her Ph.D. in sociology from Lancaster University, UK, in 2000 with a dissertation entitled Politics and Popular Culture: A Case Study on the Relationship Between the Rise of the New Right, Football and Arabesk in the 1980s in Turkey. Her research interests include: The feminist movement, gender, violence, and body politics as well as popular culture, all in the context of modernization in Turkey. Since 2010, she has been involved in an international research project called New Social Movements, Media and New Communication Technologies. She has published widely in both English and Turkish. Burcu Yıldız is currently Associate Professor in the musicology department of the Conservatory of Istanbul Technical University, where she teaches courses on ethnomusicology. She graduated from the department of political science and international relations of Boğaziçi University in 2003. She received an M.A. in ethnomusicology at the Center for Advanced Studies in Music (MIAM), Istanbul Technical University, with a work on subversive femininities in the popular music of Turkey, and a Ph.D. on cultural memory, identity, and music among the Armenians of Turkey.

Index

Locators in italics refer to figures and those in bold to tables.

12-tone music see temperament system 1920s: national identity 180–181; overview 2–3, 28–32; see also Republican period 1950s: historical context 3–4; liberalism 186–187; mass consumption 27–28; music trends 94 1960s: Cahit Berkay conversation 234–235, 240; Istanbul 170, 171; left movements 94; overview 4–6; political music 94–96; subgenres 79–80 1968 movements 5, 95 1970s: arabesk 183; heavy-metal 209; Kurdish communities 150; overview 5–6; political music 95–96 1980s: Anatolian Pop 231; authoritarian populism 183–184; hegemony 93–94; military junta 6, 7, 93–94; multiculturalism 133; neoliberalism 184–185, 187; overview 6–7; political music 97–100; Turkish popular music 221–222 1990s: Cahit Berkay conversation 234–235; extreme-metal 211, 213; Grup Kızılırmak 100–102; Islamic music 116; Kurdish communities 150, 152; multiculturalism 131, 133–134; overview 7; political music 98–100; Roma music 168; world music 120 2000s: arabesk 179; extreme-metal 215; Grup Kızılırmak 101–102; Islamic music 116; Istanbul 170, 172–173; Kurdish music 152, 154; multiculturalism 142; overview 7–9; Roma music 168, 170 academia, Turkish popular music 14–15 aerophones 193–197, 194

Akdoğan, Tuncay 100 Akkaya, İlkay 100 AKP see Justice and Development Party Aksu, Sezen 141, 202 alafranga 26–27, 30, 180 alaturka 27, 30, 180 Alevi folk music 5; 1950s 94; 1970s 95; 1980s 6; Grup Kızılırmak 100–101; minority communities 13; musicians 95; political context 96–97, 99 Alevi identity 143, 163 Al-Faruqi, Lois Ibsen 107 Alla Turca string ensembles 171 Al-Qadir, Ibn Ghaybi Al-Maraghi Abd 195 Althusser, Louis 10, 76 Alus, Sermet Muhtar 50 Anadolu Pop: historical context 5, 6; political context 95 Anatolian music: Cahit Berkay 231–240; Cem Karaca 138; Golden Microphone song contest 85–86; Westernization period 30–31 Anglo-American vs. Turkish historical perspectives 9–15 Appadurai, Arjun 112, 121, 177–178, 207, 208 arabesk 186–187; Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 9–12; as genre 177, 179; historical context 5–6, 7, 177, 180–182, 186–187; Kurdish communities 160–162; media 223–225; national identity 180–182; nationalism 70; place in Turkish popular music 222, 223–225, 226, 228–229; popular culture 182–183; Republican period 31–32; Roma 170–174; sub-genres 183–186; venues 31

254 • Index Arab radio 181 aranjman 4, 5, 80, 94 Ararat, Mem 163, 164 Armenian communities: historical context 30; language 138; multiculturalism 131, 141–144; music histories 226; nationalism 4 art music see Turkish art music Atatürk see Kemal, Mustafa audience: Anatolian Pop 231, 232, 233–234, 236; arabesk 183, 185; entertainment 23–24; extreme-metal 210–211, 212–213; Golden Microphone song contest 75, 79, 82–83, 84, 86–87; Islamic music 113, 114–116; Kurdish music 149, 151, 153–154; multiculturalism 140; Ottoman era 38–39, 43; political music 95, 96, 97, 98–99, 101–102; Roma music 169, 170, 172; Turkish art music 181; world music 122–123, 126–127 authenticity: folk music 66–67; Islamic music 116–117; national songs 64, 65, 66–67; Sufi music 123–124; world music 126–127 authoritarian populism 183–184 Aynur Doğan 154, 155 Aytar, Volkan 12, 21 bağlama: Cahit Berkay conversation 235; Kurdish music 161, 163; political context 99; political music 98, 99; Sufi music 123–124 balaban 177, 195–198, 196–197, 199–204 Balkan music 140–141 balo (ballroom dancing) 27, 28, 29 Bartók, Béla 67 Bates, Elliot 13, 14 Belge, Murat 10 Benedikter, Roland 127–128 Bennet, Andy 109–110, 209, 210 Berkay, Cahit 231–240 Berlin School 11 Blacking, John 92, 102–103 Bohlman, Philip V. 136 Boratav, Peter Naili 66 Braudel, Fernand 24 Britain: capitalism 89–90; political music 104 ‘brotherhood’ discourse 142–144 Byzantine era: entertainment 23, 24–26; historical context 21 cabaret 27 capitalism: historical context 89–90; modernization 54, 55–56, 58; record industry 60, 78, 79; world music 121

Cat Stevens 114 Çavuş, Tanburi Mustafa 44–45 Çelebi, Evliya 44, 195 Cem, Ismail 134 Çevik, Galip 96 ‘Citizen! Speak Turkish’ campaign 137–139 classical music 63, 66 class struggles 73, 89–90; hegemony 92–93; political music 91–92; popular music 90–91 coffeehouses, Ottoman era 40, 41, 43, 45–46 Cohen, Sarah 209, 212 commercial capitalism 55, 56, 58 communitarianism 25 communities, terminology 109; see also individually named minority communities; scenes concubines, Ottoman era 47 consumers see audience Çulhaoğlu, Metin 95 cultural context: Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 9–11; arabesk 187; globalization 112–113, 117, 207–209; multiculturalism 133–134, 144–145; musical change 93–94, 96–97, 103; nationalism 63–65; terminology 1; world music 119–121 cultural imperialism 120–121 dance: balo 27, 28, 29; Ottoman era 42, 44–45, 47, 50 Dede, Mercan 119–120, 122–126, 127 Deleuze, Gilles 110–111 dengbêj 150 diversity: Byzantine and Ottoman eras 25–26; entertainment 31, 32; Kurdish music 152–153; language 137–139; ‘melting pot’ 135–137, 139–142; see also multiculturalism Diyar (Kurdish musician) 160, 161, 162 donanma 36, 38 Donizetti, Giuseppe 57 duduk 177, 195–197, 196–197, 198–204 Duman, Doğan 28 Dunaway, David King 91–92, 96, 98, 103 Eagleton, Terry 64 electronic instruments: Kurdish music 159–160; political music 97–98, 101; world music 123, 125, 126; see also production/record industry embeddedness 24

Index • 255 England, capitalism 89–90; see also Britain entertainers see performers entertainment: Byzantine era 23; diversity 32; Ottoman era 21, 23, 35–42, 50–51; Republican period 28–32; theoretical framework 23–24 equal temperament see temperament system Erlmann, Veit 120, 169 Erol, Ayhan 11–12 ethnic groups 131; Byzantine and Ottoman eras 26; Reform Ottoman period 28; Republican period 30, 31–32; see also diversity; Kurdish music; multiculturalism; Roma music ethnomusicology: Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 9–10, 13; world music 119 ethnoscapes 208 etiquette: Republican period 28; Westernization 26–27 Europe see Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives; Westernization European Union membership 134 everyday music, Ottoman era 37, 38–39, 41 extreme-metal 177, 207, 209–216 fasıl 42–50, 51 fasıllar 45–46 Feld, Steven 119, 120, 121 festivals, Ottoman era 37, 40–41, 42, 43, 45 film music, Cahit Berkay 232–233, 235–236 First World War 54, 149, 200 flamenco 154, 156, 164 folk music: Cahit Berkay 236–238; Golden Microphone song contest 81–86; historical context 4, 180–181; instruments 177, 193–204; Kurdish communities 150; multiculturalism 140–141; nationalism 66–69; political context 94–96; Western popular music 80; see also nationalism foreign pop, terminology 1 France, capitalism 89–90 Gazimihal, Mahmut Ragıp 136, 194 gazinos 4, 12, 26–27 gecekondu 31, 182 Gedik, Ali C. 15 Gencebay, Orhan 182–183 gender: male dancers dressed as girls 44–45, 47–48; Ottoman era 26, 41–42, 47–49, 50; Westernization 27

German, Tülay 94–95 Giddens, Anthony 112, 207 globalization: 2000s 9; cultural context 207–209; extreme-metal 177; Islamic music 73–74, 112–113; Turkish popular music 221–229; world music 120–122, 169; see also multiculturalism glocality, Islamic music 73–74, 108–109, 110, 111–113 Golden Microphone song contest: Cahit Berkay 235, 237; hegemony 73, 75; overview 81–86; sponsorship 77–78 government see state Gramsci, Antonio: class struggles 90–91; culture 187; hegemony 73, 77, 92–93 Greek communities: cultural pluralism 134, 136, 138–139; language 138–139; music histories 226; nationalism 4; Ottoman era 25, 26, 27, 38, 40 Greve, Martin 13 Grossberg, Lawrence 180 Grup Kızılırmak 89, 100–102 Grup Yorum 99, 100, 103 Guattari, Felix 110–111 Güngör, Nazife 10–11 Gürses, Yıldırım 82, 85 hacıağa 30–31 Hall, Stuart: authoritarian populism 183–184; hegemony 10, 73, 76–77, 93 Harbiye Military Museum 141 heavy-metal: extreme-metal 177, 207, 209–216; Islamic identity 13 Hecker, Pierre 13 hegemony: media 73, 76–77; modernization 179–180; political context 73, 92–93 “Helvaci” (folk) 85 hidden temperament 59 Hindemith, Paul 67 hip-hop: Kurdish music 154–155; scenes 109–110 historical context: arabesk 5–6, 7, 177, 180–182, 186–187; class struggles 89–90; folk music 180–181; Kurdish music 149–151; musical change 91–92; nationalism 63–65; overview 2–9; terminology 1–2; see also decade entries at top of index; modernization; Ottoman era; Republican period Hîvron (Nusret Îmîr) 157–158, 158 Hodkinson, Paul 212 Hürriyet Daily News 75, 77–79, 82–84, 86

256 • Index identity: 1968 student movement 5; arabesk 180–182; Kurdish communities 150–151, 164–165; multiculturalism 144–145; Roma communities 173; see also Islamic identity ideology: 1960s subgenres 79–80; official ideology 77–79 ideoscapes 208 Islamic arabesk 186 Islamic identity: 2000s 8; entertainment 26, 27–28; heavy-metal 13; historical context 3; multiculturalism 135, 139–140; and music 108–109; Ottoman era 40, 41–42; Sunni Islam 5, 7, 143 Islamic popular music 116–117; categories of 113–115; globalization 112–113; glocality 73–74, 108–109, 110, 111–113; and identity 108–109; place of 107–108; rhizome concept 109–112; in Turkey 115–116 Islamization 7 Islam, Yusuf 114 Istanbul: Kurdish music 152–153, 163; Ottoman era 35, 42; Roma music 167–174; Turkish popular music 221–222, 225–227; Westernization 41 Işın, Ekrem 35 Izmir: department of musicology 14; left movements 98, 99–100; metal scene 210–216; türkü barlar 101 Jackson, Maureen 13 Jameson, Fredric 120 jazz, 1960s 94–95 Jewish communities 13, 226 Journal of Interdisciplinary Music Studies (JIMS) 15 journals, popular music 14–15 Justice and Development Party (AKP): historical context 7–9; Islamic arabesk 186; Kurdish music 151 Kaemmer, John 92, 96, 102 kafe-bars 31 Kahn-Harris, Keith 209–210 Kalan Music 134 kanto: gender 27; Ottoman era 49–50, 51 kantocular, entertainers 40, 41 Karaca, Cem 97, 138 Kaya, Ahmet 99–100, 141–142 Kemalism: ethnic groups 30, 32; ideology 78; multiculturalism 135; national identity 180

Kemal, Mustafa: music genres 63; nationalism 63–65 köçek 44–45, 47–48 köçekler 47–49, 48 Korean War 3–4 Köroğlu, Derya 98 Kurdish communities: Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 12–13; arabesk 160–162; diversification 152–153; flamenco 154, 156, 165; globalization 9; Grup Kızılırmak 101; historical context 7, 149–151; local dialects 160, 163; minimalists 163; multiculturalism 133, 141–142; music trends 131, 154–160, 164–165; rap 154–155; urban youth 154 Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) 150, 154 language: Kurdish communities 160, 163; nationalism 64–65, 68; Turkish identity 136–139 Lansdell, Henry 47 Lavignac, Albert 136 left movements: historical context 4–5, 6; political music 93–100 leisure see entertainment liberal period 4–6; see also 1960s lifestyles, modernization 56 Livaneli, Zülfü 97 longue durée 24 love as musical theme 183 McGrew, Anthony 207 magazines, popular music 14–15 makam: modernization 53; temperament 57, 59–60, 61 makamlar 53, 58–59, 61 Mamedova, Berfîn 156, 157 Manuel, Peter 11 Markoff, Irene 11 Marxism: Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 9, 10, 11; class struggles 90–91; historical context 89–90 mass consumption: Golden Microphone song contest 73; historical context 28–29; nationalism 68, 69, 70; state media 96; see also production/record industry Mavi Çocuklar 85 media: arabesk 223–225; extreme-metal 214–215; Golden Microphone song contest 73, 75, 77–78, 81–86; and ideology 76–77;

Index • 257 Kurdish music 152–153; Turkish popular music 222; see also radio mediascapes 208, 211, 214 mediation, entertainment 24 mediators, Republican period 29–30 Mevlevi music 124–125, 126, 127–128 mey 177, 193–197, 194, 196–197, 199–204, 202 Middleton, Richard 90–91, 104 migration 5, 13; see also ethnic groups; Islamic identity; Kurdish music; multiculturalism; Roma music military coups: 1960s 4, 5; 1980s 6, 7, 93–94 military junta 6, 7, 93–94 millet system 139–140 minimalism, Kurdish music 163 minorities 5, 13; see also ethnic groups; Islamic identity; Kurdish music; multiculturalism; Roma music Mitchell, Tony 120 modernization: arabesk 170–171, 179; historical context 3, 21–22, 53–55; Justice and Development Party 8; overview 53–54; Republican period 54; temperament 53, 57–61; urban life 54–58 mood politics 180 morality, Islamic music 107 multiculturalism 131, 133–135, 144–145; Armenian communities 142–144; ‘melting pot’ 135–137, 139–142; Republican period 135–137; Turkish language 136–139 multi-party period 3–4; see also 1950s Müren, Zeki 12 musicology, in Turkey 9–15 music venues see venues Musiki Devrimi 22 Musiki İnkilabı 3 Muslim identity see Islamic identity MySpace, extreme-metal 214–215 nationalism: 1950s 4; 1960s 5; 1980s 7; arabesk 180–182; language 136–137; multiculturalism 133–134, 135–136; Republican period 63–70 national songs: multiculturalism 135–136; reform 63–70; Republican period 22 neoliberalism: 1980s 184–185, 187; political music groups 93–94 Nettl, Bruno 92, 103 New Ageism 122, 127 New Right 183–184 new song movement 6

newspapers see Hürriyet Daily News nueva canción 6 Occidentalizing gaze 27 Oktay, Ahmet 10 Oskay, Ünsal 10 Ottoman era: 1920 reform 26–28; entertainment 21, 23, 24–26, 35–42, 50–51; historical context 3, 21–22; modernization 53–54; multiculturalism 133; national identity 180–181; nationalism 65, 68; popular genres 42–50; terminology 1; Turkish art music 227–228 Özal, Turgut 183, 184–185, 228 Özdemir, Nebi 46 Özer, Yetkin 12 Parekh, Bhikhu 144 Parmaksızoğlu, Kübra 12 Parncutt, Richard 15 paternalism, Ottoman era 25 pavyon 31 Peeva, Adela 227 performers: arabesk 170–171; entertainment 23–24; Golden Microphone song contest 81–82, 85–86; Islamic music 114–116; Kurdish music 154–163; national songs 66–69, 141–144; Ottoman era 38–39, 40, 41–42, 43; political music 94–102; Republican period 26–32; Roma music 170–174; world music 119–120, 122–126, 127 Peterson, Richard A. 109–110, 209, 210 piano, and modernization 59 policies, multiculturalism 135–136 political context 73–74; hegemony 92–93; Kurdish communities 150–151; modernization 179–180; world music 121 political music: Grup Kızılırmak 89, 100–102; left movements 93–100; musical change 73, 91–93, 102–103 polyculturalism 144–145; see also multiculturalism polyphonic music 65 popular culture: arabesk 182–183; hegemony 93; left movements 96–97, 100; Ottoman era 36–42 popular music studies 9–12 popular music, terminology 1 postmodernism 9, 11 power, Ottoman era 36–37, 42

258 • Index production/record industry: arabesk 182, 185–186; Cahit Berkay conversation 236; capitalism 60, 78, 79; Golden Microphone song contest 84; Kurdish music 152–153; mass consumption 28–29, 73, 96; nationalism 68–70; Roma music 167, 167–168, 171–172, 174 protest music 13, 15; see also political music public perceptions: Golden Microphone song contest 82–83; nationalism 68, 69, 70 radio: Arab culture 181; nationalism 68, 69, 70; state control 184–185 rakkaseler 44, 48, 49 rap, Kurdish communities 154–155; see also hip-hop rationalization, temperament system 54–55, 58 Reaganism 183–184 religion: Ottoman era 25, 37–40; political context 4, 8–9; Westernization 26; world music 122, 124–128; see also Islamic identity; Islamic music religious melodies, Islam 113–115 Republican period: entertainment 28–32; historical context 2–3, 21–22; Kurdish communities 149–150; makam 60; modernization 54; multiculturalism 135–137; nationalism 63–70; national songs 22; terminology 1 Republic, terminology 2 revolution, class struggles 89–90, 93 revolutions, musical 3, 22, 98, 104 rhizome concept 74, 109–112 rhythm, modernization 59–60 Robertson, Roland 74, 112–113 rock music: 1960s 5; Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 10; Golden Microphone song contest 86 rock ’n’ roll: folk music 95, 201; Golden Microphone song contest 79–81, 83, 85; historical context 4; music trends 95; political music 94, 95; record industry 170 Rojda 159, 159–160 Roma music 131, 167–168, 174; 2000s 9; Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 12–13; anonymous heroes 170, 171–174; arabesk 170–174; world music 168–170 Romanistanbul 168 rural areas: Anatolian Pop 231–232, 238; Republican period 30–31

Şallıel, Orhan 173–174 scales, temperament system 21–22, 53, 56–61 scenes: heavy-metal 209–210; Islamic music 109–112, 115–116; terminology 109 Seeman, Sonia 168 Selçuk, Timur 95–96 Şenlendirici, Hüsnü 172, 173–174 şenlikler 37 Serhado (Kurdish musician) 155, 156 Sevengil, Refik Ahmet 36 sexualized music: Occidentalizing gaze 27; Ottoman era 47, 48 Silüetler 85 Simmel, Georg 55 simplification, and modernization 54–55 Şirvan, Rêzan 160, 162 Slobin, Mark 120, 208–209 social class, cultural leadership 76–77; see also hegemony social media, extreme-metal 214–215 sociology 9, 10, 14 Solomon, Tom 13, 109–110 Somay, Bülent 96 spatiality: entertainment 24; Golden Microphone song contest 82–83; Kurdish music 153; Ottoman era 36–37, 38–39, 40–41, 43 spiritualism, world music 122, 124–128 sponsorship: Golden Microphone song contest 83–84; official ideology 77–79 standardization, and modernization 54–55 state: historical context 21; Kurdish communities 151; music genres 63; nationalism 63, 67–70; Ottoman era 25, 36; see also nationalism state control: arabesk 7; Cahit Berkay 237; political context 96; radio 184–185; technology 4 Stokes, Martin 13, 120–121 subcultures, terminology 109 Sufi music 119–120, 122–126 sumposion, Byzantine era 25 Sun Language Theory 64–65 Sunni Islam 5, 7, 143 Su, Ruhi 94 Tanzimat era 180 tavernas 7, 31, 46 tavşan 47 Taylor, Timothy 121

Index • 259 technology: 1950s 4; modernization 55; Roma 167; see also production/record industry technoscapes 208, 214–215 temperament system 21–22, 53, 56–61 temporality: entertainment 24; Ottoman era 37, 38–39, 43 terminology: historical context 1–2; popular music 1; Republic 2 Thatcherism 183–184 Tomlinson, Alan 186 Tomlinson, John 207 Topkapı Palace, Istanbul 35, 42, 45 Tunçbilek, Ismail 172–173 Tunç, Onno 226, 228 tuning, temperament system 21–22, 53, 56–61 Turkish see language Turkish art music: Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 11; and arabesk 186; historical context 4, 5; ideology 78–79; national identity 181; Ottoman tradition 227–228 Turkish Petroleum Partnership Batman Orchestra (T.P.A.O.) 86 Turkish pop: language 137–139; terminology 1 türkü barlar 101 Türkü, Yeni 97–98 UK see Britain universities, Turkish popular music 15 urban life: Kurdish communities 154; modernization 54–58; Turkish art music 228

vaudeville 27 venues: 1980s 7; Armenian concert 141–142; extreme-metal 213; Golden Microphone song contest 82–83; Grup Kızılırmak 101; multi-party period 4; Ottoman era 36–42, 38–39, 45–46; Republican period 2–3 virtuosity, Roma music 168, 174 Way, Lyndon 13 Western classical music 63, 66 Westernization: 1920s reform 26–27; Anglo-American vs. Turkish historical perspectives 9–15; entertainment 26–27, 29, 30; gender 27; historical context 3; Justice and Development Party 8; modernization 56; Ottoman era 41, 49, 50; religion 26 Western popular music: 1960s 79–80, 94–95; Anatolian Pop 235; national identity 181–182; Republican period 3; world music 119, 126–127 world music 119–120; 2000s 9; Anglo-American vs. Turkish perspectives 12–13; discourse of 120–122; political context 74; Roma 168–170; spiritualism 122, 124–128; Sufi 119–120, 122–126 World War I 54, 149, 200 Yavaşoğulları, Nejat 96 yeşil pop see Islamic popular music Yılmaz, Murat 212 Yücel Müzik 213