ÇETİN CEM YILMAZ
The music and popular culture publication Çekme Kaset, which began its journey as a blog in the 2000s, later reached its dedicated audience through a column in Blue Jean magazine, a radio show on Rock FM, and its YouTube channel. Recently, we reconnected with Çekme Kaset, aka Çetin Cem Yılmaz on Instagram and he penned his thoughts on the emotions that stir in him by attending a concert of a band or artist he admires for us. These lines, which concertgoers will likely find relatable, contain notes inspired by Matt Berninger, Annie Clark and Bulutsuzluk Özlemi.
This letter is about finding your true self in a dark, noisy, and crowded place.
This letter is to concerts and live music.
I’ve always envied people who can write a love letter to a city. I wish I, too, could feel a deep sense of belonging to the place I live, to be passionately in love with it in that way. I long to write a love letter to Mersin’s hot, sunny, melancholic, and turbulent days; to Istanbul’s intensity, its struggle for survival, and its tension; or to Toronto, the exceptionally reliable but somewhat plain, loyal friend. This is why I envy those who feel they belong to their city. For instance, to be able to look at a place with the same compassion as Alexander Payne’s “Nebraska”, feeling such a profound connection. But it has never happened to me. I’ve loved the places I’ve lived, yet I’ve never felt like I truly fit in anywhere.
But there were places in those cities where I did feel a sense of belonging. Sometimes, it was in a warm, cozy house, a dimly lit bar, or on a late-night walk home. But that feeling was strongest at concerts. As Kurt Cobain said, “With the lights out, it’s less dangerous.” In that noisy darkness that always made me feel at home. I lost myself shouting and jumping to the same song with hundreds—sometimes thousands—of others. I self-reflected and discovered myself. For me, nothing compares to the energy released at a concert, the healing power of shared songs, being part of a vast collective. I feel the same connection watching Matt Berninger stage dive at Babylon, Annie Clark at Salon İKSV, or Tim Booth in Toronto. In those moments, we are all one, sharing a feeling, a moment, a catharsis. On rare occasions, I feel what it truly means to be myself. I shed all the extra weight and find my truest self. I feel lighter; my soul, heart, and mind are cleansed.
I saw Idles play in Toronto the other day, and Joseph Talbot was shouting to the crowd, “You’re not alone! Never forget that. You’re not alone!” It struck me how, some 25 years ago, at a Bulutsuzluk Özlemi concert in Mersin, lead singer Nejat Yavaşoğulları was saying something similar: “I think the crowd at our concerts could become very good friends.” It’s true—in any city, I feel a connection with the people I can sing with, laugh with, and have a good time with far more than with anyone else.
Just the way I love myself the most in that noisy darkness.