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Türküola gratefully presents an other Barış Manço compilation which gives a full retrospective of the best years of the Turkish psychedelic rock legend. The compilation focuses on the 1967-1971 era of Manço, which is mainly considered as the psychedelic years when the typical Anatolian Pop sound was evolving and Manço was more a rocker than a semi conservative pop folk singer of a neo-Ottoman aura. In the compilation we hear his works with his bands Les Mistigris (Seher Vakti), Kaygısızlar (near in all songs including Bebek, Boğaziçi etc.), Etc (in Dağlar Dağlar 1 &2 , Küçük Bir Gece Müziği (which is a psyche- adaptation Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik” and Derule), Moğollar (Binboğanın Kızı, İşte Hendek İşte Deve). “Binboğanın Kızı” explodes a prog- rock bomb with the legendary Moğollar with Hammond solos of Murat Ses, “Ağlama Değmez Hayat” pushes the limits of Turkish traditional music instruments with its raw but powerful groove, “Küçük Bir Gece Müziği” covers Mozart with its powerful guitars with screaming wah wah pedals, “Boğaziçi” (Bosphorus) gives a mystical and psychedelic mood which would later be a signature of Manço in his electronic prog years . “İşte Barış İşte Manço” will be a good start for the absolute beginners, thanks to traditional Türküola quality...

Why you'll love it...
“Knowing Tammy Wynette’s troubled history, and with 50-plus years of social change since the recording and release of Stand By Your Man, it’s difficult to hear the album and not want to scream: Tammy, get out of there; you’re so much better than him! But that’s not to say that the album, which ascended to No. 2 on Billboard’s Country Albums chart and earned a Country Music Association Album of the Year nomination in 1969, isn’t worth listening to. Wynette’s mournful voice, described by her longtime producer Billy Sherrill as ‘husky and soulful and tearful and dynamic,’ was made for songs like these; frankly, so were her real-life experiences. ‘She lived it, you know. She lived every tear every-body ever heard her sing,’ Sherrill once said of Wynette, and he assembled talented musicians to match her delivery in lush, Nashville Sound-era style.”

The "evohé" is the song of the Bacchants during the carnival. It is a bloody and humorous song that humiliates everything. In Euripides' work, the evohé is screamed when the city of Thebes is torn apart by fever and masquerade. Everyone laughs and sings, the maenads set the city on fire, masks pierce and disfigure the inhabitants, and Agave eats the head of King Pentheus, her son.

One cannot explain what this song is; one would need to describe the flip side of the sung, its extremity. Perhaps one cannot even hear it... most likely, the song has already affected us before crossing the threshold of our lucidity. It wells up... It glides over memory; one cannot know its melody, there are no lyrics, no notation, no tradition, no learning... no university of the sung abyss can be established. The orgy of matter is sovereign and incommunicable; the song it gives birth to is always alien, foolish, and lost; it is a sung panic. -Pan's panic, offering a pack of blind dogs to Artemis and suggesting, in passing, to send them hunting in her debauchery. The dogs of naked nature run like mad at an impossible speed, devouring every creature they scent in the wind, consuming all flesh within their reach. One can imagine that the pack reappears invariably in too assertive human affairs, facing certainties against which its wildness imposes itself more violently than against anything else. For example: when we are a bit pleased with ourselves, sensing the impression of having composed, of having imposed our order on the order of matter... immediately, it seems we can hear them barking in the distance. We freeze, we listen, we would prefer to believe it's hallucinations. But no. It is indeed the order of matter returning to express itself with the dogs. Order pours over us, the carnival imposes itself, and while the dogs eat our heads, they offer to admit that the foundation of our order was all soft, all foolish and spongy, all decomposed, that the decomposed order from below, the sincerity of matter, had never ceased to be orgiastic. When the dogs devour us, it's because Pan has brought back the mud. He has ladled a large serving of material broth back onto us; he has made all things copulate again. One imagines a song that is not at all solemn but belongs to a kind of cold and sacred-less mystique; it is the grip of the sovereign jester. An apparently disorderly and boldly stammering song that sees itself overturned and enjoys it...

French Chanson, Noise, echoes of music from faraway and long ago, modified radio transistors and other old electronic gear… After releasing several sets of raw, almost entirely improvised direct-to-tape recordings duplicated by hand in a workshop on the border of the Bauges mountain chain, the Bégayer Trio made new friends. Orphans without a home, they were welcomed like brothers by the Parisian label Le Saule, spotted by the chic Geneva-based Bongo Joe Records, and thus were able to devote a year to the making of their debut album, “Terrain à mire. Une maison rétive. Contrainte par le toit.”

Co-produced by the two families mentioned above, the album was a first beam in the musical structure laid by this trio of Alpine fellows: what they sought was the most exact form of mutt-itude, a nomadic journey through intentionally scrambled ancient musical signs by way of French, Italian and Arabic song, gleefully following René Char’s aphorism, later borrowed and translated by Hannah Arendt as “Our inheritance was left to us by no testament.”

Bégayer’s mission– in the name of those without tradition, the rejects of a culture of scarcity born in the twilight of popular customs amidst the screams of Noise on village squares and in the flow of digital swarms– is to create a hitherto unknown genre of hybrid gypsy rhapsody. The culture of scarcity can be experiences as a kind of cruel joy, an occasion to bridge the unsteady interpretation of ancient practices with contemporary experiments and build upon singular variations and excess. Up to now, every stutter-song intended to produce a joyful though disquieting object whose obstinacy and cruel simplicity triggered a disturbance, a distancing, a studied thing that stares right back at us.

Now the trio has become a quintet working towards a new kind of concert : with no beginning and no end, in which concert-time and quotidian time merge in order to deliberately drain of any autonomy the temporality of performance. Through the vocals, the homemade percussion and numerous strange instruments, two immutable musical activities will be celebrated and brought to bear on each other: the song of the people, whose cry of hunger and togetherness breaks through the barrier between art and life – and the art of performance explored as communal effort to describe our times.

7 intense Egyptian shaabi remixes by Cairo's finest: Zuli, 1127, 3Phaz, Abadir, Nadah El-Shazly, Kzlk & Youssef Abouzeid.

The adrenalised, electrification of Egyptian Shaabi music in recent years has produced absolutely scorching tracks, and Nashazphone’s This is Cairo Not The Screamers can certainly be added to those ranks. Shaabi translates directly as ‘of the people’. Here, it serves as a vehicle for the incendiary and propulsive. Raw power, Cairo-style, distorted variations on a theme.

Stunningly beautiful, poignant music from Bilād al-Shām — ‘the countries of Damascus’, known nowadays as Syria, Lebanon and Palestine — including performances from the very first recording sessions in the region. The legendary, moody Beirut singer Būlus Ṣulbān is here — some historians have him singing before Egypt’s Pasha Ibrāhīm Bāshā during his military campaign in Syria, in 1841 — and Ḥasība Moshēh, Jewish ‘nightingale of the Damascene gardens’. Thurayyā Qaddūra from Jerusalem; Yūsuf Tāj, a folk singer from Mount-Lebanon; Farjallāh Baiḍā, cousin to the founders of Baidaphon Records... Musical directors like the lutist Qāsim Abū Jamīl al-Durzī and the violinist Anṭūn al-Shawwā (followed by his son Sāmī); such virtuosi as the qanun-players Nakhleh Ilyās al-Maṭarjī and Ya‘qūb Ghazāla, and lutist Salīm ‘Awaḍ. Even at the time, notwithstanding such brilliance, public music-making was frowned upon as morally demeaning, especially for women. Musical venues were generally dodgy. Ṣulbān once cut short a wedding performance for the Beiruti posh, after just one song, he was so disgusted with his audience. ‘If I had to tell you about the catcalls,’ one commentator wrote about the musical theatre of the time, ‘the stomping of feet, the sound of sticks hitting the ground, the noise of the water-pipes, the teeth cracking watermelon seeds and pistachio nuts, the screams of the waiters, and the clinking of arak glasses on the tables, I would need to go on and on and on...’