While Turkey boasted its own heady rock scene during the late 1960s, the Anatolian Invasion didn’t make much of a dent in the West. Were it not for the tireless digging and reissues from imprints like Andy Votel’s Finders Keepers, Pharaway Sounds, and Sublime Frequencies, we still might know little about Turkish rock. Sure, the searing strings of Erkin Koray, Muhlis Akarsu, and the like may have appealed to Woodstock-era rock fans, but the thundering drums underpinning them led to a Turkish revival of sorts decades later, with everyone from the Gaslamp Killer and the Weeknd to Timbaland sampling Turkish music.
But back home, a military coup in 1980 led to Turkey’s rock scene being repressed to the point of near-extinction. It’s only recently that it’s begun emanating beyond the borders, though with President Erdoğan’s new crackdowns on dissent, one fears it might be a short-lived renaissance. Ever since her 2014 debut, vocalist Gaye Su Akyol has emerged at the fore this revitalized music scene, alongside acts like Ayyuka and Büyük Ev Ablukada. The music is unmistakably Turkish in its heritage—the modes and scales to the guitars mimic the baglama and ud—but there are rock influences as well, from Nevermind and Nick Cave to “White Rabbit.” This confluence of East and West makes Hologram Ĭmparatorluğu an intriguing listen even to those who don’t speak Turkish.
A dizzying updraft of buzzing strings immediately makes “Hologram” soar. But while the music alludes to transcendence and the song, on the surface, is about love, it’s also about seeing through such an illusion (fitting for a group whose live shows often feature Akyol and band in masks and an album title that translates as “Hologram Empire”). “Thought I had a new world found/I was fooled,” Akyol sings, but listen closer and Akyol’s august voice also hints at capture and escape, which feels both surreal and real at once: “I am being seized/Two baby finches, let’s escape there/To Pluto.”
Akyol’s father is famous Turkish painter Muzaffer Akyol, and in his vivid, dreamlike canvases, there’s an antecedent for his daughter’s language. On the simmering, bandoneon-laced “Anlasana Sana Aşiğim,” Akyol’s lyrics on love are by-turns strange and tactile: “I’ve become a butterfly/Come and find me/Black holes are everywhere/Confessions all clandestine.” The Bad Seeds influence comes through on the noir-ish throb and reverb guitar riffs of “Dünya kaleska,” and Akyol’s lyrics convey bleakness worthy of Cave.
Snaking hand percussion and rattles gives “Eski tüfek” a driving pulse, matched by the surf guitars of her backing band, Bubituzak. Their guitars are as comfortable evoking the likes of Erkin Koray as they are Dick Dale and Ennio Morricone’s spaghetti western themes, heightening the drama of Akyol’s songs. Closer “Berdus” rides a lashing guitar riff and percolating bassline that gives the song a steady building rhythm, as Akyol imagines herself lost in the woods like Little Red Riding Hood and conjures wolves and bears alike. Just don’t mistake it for a fairytale ending. For as the music fades away, Akyol’s last line leaves a pejorative image for her fellow countrymen, and, well, everyone: “Yesterday’s piece of shit has become king over our head.”
