Anna in Istanbul

For the last week and a bit, I’ve spent a good majority of my time sitting in Brikem’s studio, slowly but surely being covered with sawdust and cigarette ash. This seems to be a universal thing; slightly dirty musicians. I don’t know of too many OCD musicians who compulsively clean. Well, maybe in classical music but definitely not in folk.

Anywho! The Concert!

July 18th, 2008-Parçalı Bulutlu

After four nights of rehearsal, we were as ready as we were going to be to play in front of real human beings. Despite the language barrier and the natural musician tendency towards “Nah. We’ll play it by ear. We don’t need to arrange anything”, the bohemians and I managed to scrape together a setlist of Feist, B.B. King, Tracy Chapman, and The Kitchen Cabinet. The band consists of myself, Brikem the late-20s guitar maker, his younger friend who happens to be a great drummer, and an old, tan man who smiles and plays bass like I’m never heard it before.

Each night would unfold with almost disturbing regularity. Leaving my favorite work-friendly cafe Şimdi, I made my way down the stretch between Istikala Caddesi and Tünel, turned right at the fork in the road onto a back alley, waved at whichever bohemian was looking after the shop (and gave hugs to the little girls who always seem to be there), walked across the alley, up the steps, through the industrial-graffiti-ed door, and into Brikem’s shop/home. Ezgi (Brikem’s girlfriend) always greets me with a smile, 2 kisses, and a “Merhaba! Nasilsin? Çay istiyor misin?”. Brikem is invariably hunched over some guitar schematics or sawing away at some very fine pieces of wood while his friends and business partners wander in and out of the shop, flicking ash and spilling Turkish coffee everywhere.

I sit and fiddle around on guitar or look through Brikem’s collection of music while he finishes up, then the band slowly filters in, sets up, plugs in, and begins to play.

Now when I say these musicians can play, I mean they can PLAY. Thank god I’m the only one who can sing in English otherwise I would be the first one cut from the band! (the 5th Beatle? the 4th Tenor? the Spice-Girl-That-Got-Cut-Because-She-Questioned-If-Wearing-Tight-Union-Jack-Mini-Dresses-Is-Really-What-They-Meant-By-”Girl Power”?)

The night of the concert arrived and, after an hour or so of practice, Brikem called a cab and we packed ourselves and all the instruments in. Sitting halfway out the window with Ezgi perched on both Brikem and my laps was not exactly where I wanted to be the one time we get a taxi driver who believes, much like those in Massachusetts, that driving laws do not apply to him. This includes (but is in no way an exhaustive list of the weird maneuvers he pulled); speeding down back alleys, jumping curbs, and, my favorite, going the wrong way down a one way street and then on to the grass in front of the Blue Mosque.

By the time I found my stomach again (it was someplace around Eminönü apparently), the cab was already unpacked and the boys were setting up. The concert, it turns out, was sponsored by the municipality of Sultanahmet. Sultanhamet is the most touristy part of Istanbul and is home to Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sofia, and the Blue Mosque. Right at the end of the European continent, it is a beautiful but overpriced area. The stage was surprisingly huge (espeically for someone who was convinced that we were going to be playing in some pub for drunken tourists). Instead, the venue was huge and, even hours before, there were already people sitting on the grass and on steps waiting to hear us.

I remember distinctly looking up over the stage and seeing a sign with the information about the night’s concert. I suddenly realized that the name of the group playing was, in fact, our group. We have a name! It’s “Parçalı Bulutlu” or, roughly translated, the way the clouds look right before its about to rain. This is the explanation Ezgi gave me so I’m going to go with it.

The musicians and I did our sound check and went to have some tea to relax.

When the concert started, I was shocked at how many people were there. Walking up on stage, I was blinded by the lights (“bliiinded by the liiight something something something something like a something in the niiight”) and tripped a few times. I have to say, there is something very comforting about not being able to see an audience. It made me feel much less self conscious and let me focus on the things I could see; Brikem, the drummer, the bassist, and a huge 10 foot tall background sign with the picture of the president of the municipality pointing out and “towards change”. All very comforting.

We began playing and worked our way through “Gatekeeper”, “Give Me One Reason”, “The Thrill is Gone”, “Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps”, and a slew of my own songs. When, at one point, someone yelled something in the audience to me, I responded “Ahh no! Yabancim!” at which point they yelled back “I love you” in english. It’s nice to have Turkish, bearded groupies.

When Brikem would start on one of his guitar solos, I would just laugh. The type of flying solos and long interludes completely escapes me–this isn’t your mother’s Kitchen Cabinet, needless to say. Although I love the music these gypsies play, it’s not really my music. It is, however, fulfilling some weird desire of mine to write and play blues music about drinking (which is, I maintain, the best way to write the blues).

My favorite moment was during our cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel”. I suddenly had a moment mid-song when everything seemed so perfect and yet so ridiculously weird. There I was; playing a song about Janis Joplin, singing the lyrics “giving me head on the unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street”, to a big crowd of Turkish people (including a few hijab-clad women) who didn’t understand anything that I was singing, in the park between the Hagia Sofia and Blue Mosque.

Life is strange. Especially when you spend time with Gypsy Musicians.