Barış Manço, Kurtalan Ekspres

Right across from Galata and Sultanahmet, on the Asian side of Istanbul, sits the district of Kadıköy, staring straight out at the Golden Horn and the waters of the Bosphorus. Through its narrow lanes and steamy bathhouses wander students and artists of every stripe, standing firm like a rock against the Islamization drive of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, which instead runs rampant on the more institutional side of the former Ottoman capital, amid towering construction sites for new mosques and improbable curfews. Wandering through the bars, cafés, record shops, tattoo studios and bookstores of Kadıköy, it's impossible not to stumble across effigies, little shrines and portraits dedicated to Mehmet Barış Manço, celebrated here almost on a par with Atatürk. At number five Yusuf Kamil Paşa Sk. in Kadıköy, the curious can even visit Manço's house museum.

This article is dedicated to one of the masterpieces of Manço the musician, but it's worth noting how far his legend reaches beyond the musical sphere, permeating countless aspects of popular culture.

Besides being one of the most influential Turkish musicians, he was in fact a well-known cultural presenter and TV host. Millions of Turks grew up watching his wonderful show "7'den 77'ye" ("From 7 to 77"), which blended music, anecdotes and travels to international destinations, making him as much a symbol of local culture as an expert on faraway places and imaginaries.

After all, his music seems to echo that same outlook, fusing Turkish folk and singer-songwriter traditions with pop, rock and funk influences, like one more chapter in the millennia-old fusion of East and West that has marked the city since the days of the two Roman empires.

Handlebar moustache, long flowing hair, traditional Turkish garb alternating with Western clothes: this was the image behind which lay a free and liberal pen, philosophical bordering on mystical, but above all a boundless curiosity.

Besides containing many of Manço's most important songs, "Sözüm Meclisten Dışarı" (1981) is also the album that best exemplifies his sprawling openness to influences and suggestions of every kind.

The album arrives almost twenty years after his recording debut: after a handful of twist singles (1962-63) and an attempted career in France in 1964, a consequence of his university studies, the artist returned home and helped forge Anatolian rock (in Turkish, anadolu rock), weaving together türküler (traditional Turkish songs) and makamlar (the modal scales of Ottoman classical music, related to the Arabic maqamat) with Anglo-American rock, with a strong fondness for psychedelia and prog — the latter an ideal match for the flourishes of the makamlar.

Barış Manço's music thus comes to life through electric guitars, bass, drums and keyboards, with occasional contributions from traditional Turkish instruments such as the bağlama (the most famous traditional Anatolian lute), the ney (an obliquely-blown flute) and the davul (a martial drum played with one thick stick and one thin one to play with its accents).

From 1971 onward he was backed by Kurtalan Ekspres, a band he founded and named after the train connecting Istanbul and Kurtalan. It's worth noting that this extraordinary ensemble's story doesn't end with its work alongside Manço: Kurtalan Ekspres also backed Cem Karaca and Erkin Koray, the other two towering figures of anadolu rock, as well as serving as an important talent incubator (its ranks would also include Fuat Güner and Özkan Uğur, future members of the celebrated rock band Mfö).

Manço's debut on LP arrived after fourteen years of a career built on singles, which was in fact the norm for nearly all Turkish artists until the mid-Seventies. His first album was "2023" (the title marks the centenary of the proclamation of the Republic of Turkey), released in 1976 and falling within the realm of progressive rock, followed that same year by the forgettable "Nick The Chopper", sung entirely in English.

1979 brought "Yeni Bir Gün", which introduced a pronounced funk element. On the cover, the artist appears thoughtful, gazing out at the world beyond a window. It's an image that perfectly captures the mystical spirit of a work centred on rebirth (the title means "a new day"), born of the need to reject the suffocating constraints of modern society. Manço acts more like a bard than a singer, inviting listeners to rediscover nature and human values such as brotherhood: it's at once nostalgic and utopian.

After the so-so "20. San'at Yılı Disco Manço" (1980), released only in the German market and, true to its title, reworking his repertoire with disco-music arrangements, along came "Sözüm Meclisten Dışarı" (roughly translatable as "What I Say Isn't Aimed at Those Present"), which best gathers together all his many facets.

At that point Manço was one of the main draws of the national scene. The artist looms large on this cover too, seated on a gilded throne, wearing a black silk shirt and a rather flashy leopard-print blazer.

Recorded on 8 tracks at the studios of Istanbul Gelişim University, using the best equipment he'd ever had at his disposal, the album boasts the most technological, futuristic sound Manço had achieved up to that point. The result is a work that, despite the tangle of ideas at play, weaving together anadolu rock, synth-funk and space rock, comes across as thoroughly pop and irresistibly catchy.

The new, surprising mix of genres orchestrated by Manço is evident right from "Alla Beni Pulla Beni". Placed as the opener, it's an excellent calling card for the skills of Kurtalan Ekspres: it kicks off with a funk rhythm built on the interplay between Ahmet Güvenç's slapped bass notes and Celal Güvenç's snare hits, before settling into a relaxed groove driven by layered synthesizers, played by Nejat Tekdal and Manço himself, which mimic both brass (in the foreground) and strings (in the background). Despite the epic, almost sci-fi sound, the lyrics consist of fairly straightforward romantic verses, sung as a duet by Manço's baritone voice and backing vocalist Deniz Tüney.

The following "Arkadaşım Eşşek" has established itself over time as one of the most famous Turkish children's songs. It's a nursery rhyme influenced by the türküler tradition, albeit with an electric marching-band feel driven by the sound of a glockenspiel.

The chorus closes with a choir of distorted, possessed little voices trotting along with the donkey friend the title is dedicated to:

How many years have passed since I left the village, I haven't counted them,

the seasons have come and gone, since we last saw each other,

you've never sent word since that day,

maybe you're upset with me? Have you forgotten me?

Yesterday I remembered you again, my eyes filled up [with tears],

those happy days of ours have become a memory,

the separation has come, it must be endured,

I miss you so much, my donkey friend.

My 'ass' friend, my 'donkey' friend, my donkey friend.

Are the wild colts still prancing in the meadows?

Does the speckled rooster still fight with the cats?

Has Sarıkız stopped nursing her calf? [note 1]

Do the little lambs and kids cuddle each other?

Wag your long ears one last time,

send me news from all my old friends

[note 1] Literally “blonde girl”, or “girl with a turban” (as the turban is usually yellow); in this case it’s the name of the cow.

The theme is actually anything but childish: the sense of psychological displacement experienced by the many inhabitants of the Anatolian hinterland who, over time, left their villages to seek a better life in the city is a deeply felt issue in Turkey. Adding up its various videos, the song has racked up 385 million views on YouTube to date.

The title track (renamed “Cacik” on many reissues) is a spoken word interlude marking the only moment of continuity with the guru-like tones of “Yeni Bir Gun”. It's followed by “Şehrazat”, an adaptation of the symphonic suite “Shekherazada”, composed by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov in 1888: Manço's ties to prog resurface here in full, pushing him to tackle one of the genre's tòpoi – namely, the confrontation with classical music. After a long introduction for strings and woodwinds, the rock element merges with the orchestra's Thousand-and-One-Nights notes in the second movement, in which Manço sings his own lyrics in English (though the result serves its purpose, it obviously doesn't boast the wealth of nuance found in his Turkish compositions).

“Gülpembe” is a ballad dedicated to his beloved maternal grandmother, who died when the artist was thirteen. The pace is slow but steady, while the atmosphere swells between verses, with Bahadır Akkuzu's distorted rhythm guitar trading lines with a synthesizer solo comparable to those of other great names in space rock of the era, such as Germany's Eloy.

The term gülpembe, which literally means a pink-coloured rose, is in this case his grandmother's nickname. Manço thus returns to illustrating the sense of loss an adult feels looking back on childhood, drifting into the autobiographical and focusing on one of the central figures of his upbringing:

When you smiled the roses bloomed, Gülpembe,

the nightingales sang of you, we listened to them, Gülpembe,

when you arrived, spring arrived, Gülpembe,

the streams called out for you, we were happy, Gülpembe.

We couldn't believe it, Gülpembe,

without you, our lands

didn't exist, Gülpembe.

On my lips one last traditional melody, Gülpembe,

still and always singing to you, calling you, Gülpembe,

one day you left with the autumn rains.

In my eyes one last cloud, Gülpembe,

still and always seeking you, waiting for you, Gülpembe

The second side of the vinyl opens with “Adem Oğlu Kızgın Fırın Havva Kızı Mercimek,” one of the most original lyrics in the collection. A mix of folk proverbs and cultural references both refined and humble, aiming to poke fun at the role of gender in society. The spoken intro also takes jabs at the best-known local traditional love stories, highlighting their relentlessly tragic tone. Mançı delivers the verses backed by lively female choruses, over a disco funk groove marked by blaring saxophones:

From father Adam and mother Eve to this day,

much has been said about love,

countless folk songs have been written,

Leyla and Mecnun, Ferhat and Şirin,

fairy tales of every kind have been written,

like Kerem and Aslı, Yusuf and Züleyha, [note 2]

all of them sad, ending in separations,

full of suffering and tears,

you know, troubling things that darkened a person's world like a nightmare.

Today Barış, your brother, will sing you a new folk song,

because Barış has seen that the greatest truth on Earth

[is that] the son of Adam is a burning oven, the daughter of Eve is a lentil.

What you call a girl is graceful, while a man has a heart [like] a brazier,

by the side of a valiant man, a woman is necessary.

Without a girl, a valiant man is like one without arms, or wings,

the drum must be struck with what matches it. [note 3]

The lentil and the oven [stand] side by side, what need is there for so many words?

When a mad heart loves, it wants neither blanket, nor mattress.

Some eat olives and cheese, others baklava and börek, [note 4]

for some a palace is too small, for others a single room is enough,

for the daughter of Eve two eyes and a hut are enough,

for the generous son of Adam, a mouthful of bread to eat.

God ordained it so, the world was created so,

every son of Adam was granted an Eve,

seven climes, four corners,

if you don't believe it, go and see for yourself,

even on Noah's ark

the oven filled up with lentils,

A boy is an arrow, you don't find one in every house,

a girl is lovely, a thousand gold coins are too few

[note 2] Leyla and Mecnun, Ferhat and Şirin, Kerem and Aslı, Yusuf and Züleyha: legendary tragic couples or figures drawn from epic poems, typical of Middle Eastern literature. They are all of Persian origin, except for Kerem and Aslı, who come from Turkish-Azeri culture.

[note 3] A proverb, which in this case points to the need to be flanked by someone worthy of one's own value.

[note 4] Foods of Ottoman origin. Respectively, a sweet pastry and a savory pie.

One of the most imposing vocal showcases of Mançö's career, "Ali Yazar Veli Bozar" is also one of his catchiest and most memorable. The bass keeps insisting on its funk grooves, while the agitated melodies sketched out by the keyboards draw deeply from the classics of Anatolian folk tradition.

The title (Ali writes, Veli erases) is an old Turkish proverb that the artist intones to condemn the ease with which people tend to judge others' lives, sometimes causing serious harm:

Ali writes, Veli erases, draws the water from the jar little by little.

If they saw tears in my eyes, they would ask: does a man cry?

The skies are weeping, my friends, is it too much if I have wept?

As the merciful rain falls, my friends, is it too much if I get wet?

I grew sad, [but] what's the use? Strong vinegar ruins its own jar.

If one day I were to go back on my word, I'd lose a friend's respect,

The world turns, my friends, is it too much if I change [my mind] about a promise?

Fate turns, my friends, is it too much if I've changed?

Barış, it's pointless to say "walk" [when you're] at the end of the road,

life stops, my friends, is it too much if I've stopped too?

Life is coming to an end, my friends, is it too much if I'm exhausted?

“2025” is the closing chapter of a trilogy that began five years earlier with the title track of the album “2023”; fittingly, its subtitle reads: “Üçüncü ve Son Yolculuk” (the third and final journey). The interference of a spaceship opens an almost eight-and-a-half-minute suite in which anadolu rock reaches its cosmic-psychedelic peak, with a cinematic ambition that recalls the soundtracks of westerns by Morricone and the romantic electronic textures of Vangelis, not to mention the sweeping sequencer runs typical of Tangerine Dream and Jean-Michel Jarre.

Closing the album is “Dönence,” the darkest moment, with an almost apocalyptic feel: a chiming glockenspiel, bursts of overdriven guitar, an insistent funk bassline, finger snaps and Arabic-tinged keyboards alternate and pile up in a progression that's never linear, creating what, given the ratio between fame and complexity, might well be the point of no return for anadolu rock. The lyrics are worthy of the music:

Around here the day has long since passed

and I, in the womb of the pitch-black night, am waiting all alone,

I'm watching,

I'm feeling,

a turning point will come one day, I know it.

I'm in the womb of the pitch-black night, all alone,

somewhere far away suns are rising.

I am a branch of a skeletal tree, utterly alone,

somewhere far away something is taking root.

On my cracked lip neither a sound nor a breath,

somewhere far away folk songs are being sung.

When the day turns,

the turning point will come

The term dönence, taken literally, means "tropic", but in a poetic context it can indicate something cyclical and symbolize the succession of birth and death typical, for example, of the phases of life, the seasons, or even astronomy. Above it has been translated as "turning point".

The most obvious subtext is a spiritual one, though it could also be read on a sociopolitical level, as a wish for change regarding the situation Turkey was facing at the time, amid economic instability, political persecution, oppression of minorities, and so on.

"Sözüm Meclisten Dışarı" proves to be a huge commercial success, reaching 1.7 million copies sold and becoming the best-selling Turkish record up to that point. Its impact also sets off a chain reaction, granting the album format levels of popularity that were hardly expected, considering how late it had arrived on the Turkish market: from then on sales would skyrocket, and the very record set by this milestone would be broken repeatedly in the years immediately following. Still, it retains the distinction of having been the spark that ignited that golden age.

Besides "Arkadaşım Eşşek", whose popularity among children has already been mentioned, at the very least "Alla Beni Pulla Beni", "Gülpembe" and "Dönence" can be counted among the most famous Turkish songs of all time.

The album is still loved across generations: suffice it to say that, right as this article is being published, the compilation "Hali Hal", which draws heavily on it, sits at number 4 on the chart of most-streamed albums on Spotify in Turkey, holding its own against artists who had barely been born when Mançoo died of a heart attack in January 1999, at just 56 years old.

Fun fact: in the cassette edition for the German market, the album contained four bonus tracks, later included years afterward on some of the many CD reissues (which, incidentally, often scramble the original track order).

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15/06/2025