Being on the move with no turntable, the best I can do right now is just stare at these records. There are high levels of anticipation to play them loudly, and heavy doses of lucid nostalgia that come with their acquisition.
Two months ago in Istanbul, I met up with my friend Haluk in a cafe to talk Turkish records. Post interview, we hopped on a ferry, switching continents from Europe to Asia. There were the Kurdish protesters at the dock, followed by my first Kurdish meal, highlighted by lamb and cherry stew. From there, we went to “The Source,” climbing past recording studios and practice spaces en route to the third floor. For three hours we dug through bins: Haluk methodically playing all kinds of music, and me getting schooled in the process. Lots of tea was drunk in the process. And then we went back to the dock, where the protesters were now dancing, singing and playing music, to cross the Bosphorus back Europe as the sun came down.
It’s why we do this. There is the music, and then there are the memories.