Selda Bağcan: A Beginner's Guide | Songlines
Thursday, December 12, 2024

Selda Bağcan: A Beginner's Guide

By Daniel Spicer

The trailblazing Turkish singer-songwriter and activist remains an icon of the 70s Anatolian psych scene. Daniel Spicer recounts a career full of revolutionary spirit and stirring protest songs

SELDA BAGCAN

Selda Bağcan (photo: Jurl Hiensch)

Of all the larger-than-life characters who emerged from Turkey’s 70s psych scene, Selda Bağcan remains one of the most remarkable. Known to the world by just her first name, Selda wasn’t only notable for being the only female star in that decidedly macho milieu – she was also a boundary-pushing singer-songwriter and a fearless political activist whose story is an object lesson in uncompromising commitment and resistance.

Born in 1948, Selda spent the early part of her childhood in the eastern region of Anatolia, where her father taught her to play the mandolin. At age nine, she moved to Ankara, Turkey’s capital, where she was introduced to a melting pot of musical styles. In 2012, she told me, “I grew up listening to The Beatles, The Animals, The Rolling Stones and, on top of that, Latin American music. Los Paraguayos and Lucho Gatica. From Paris, Los Machucambos. From Italy, Rita Pavone.”

While an undergraduate at Ankara University, Selda felt drawn to traditional music and began to perform her own arrangements of Turkish folk songs, accompanying herself on an acoustic guitar instead of the customary bağlama. Simultaneously she was drawn to the left-wing revolutionary fervour that swept Turkey’s universities and coffee houses at the time. “It was 1968 and I was in the second year of my university studies when all the activity started,” she remembered. “I was in the middle of it all. I am what they call the ‘’68 generation.’ That turbulent time went all round the world and came to Turkey.” Imbued with genuine political passion, her interpretations of folk tunes became protest songs as she assumed the identity of a homegrown Anatolian Joan Baez.

In 1971, while still in the final year of her studies, she released two singles, ‘Katip Arzuhalim Yaz Yare Böyle’ and ‘Tatli Dilim Güler Yüzlüm’ – both traditional, rural ballads with prison laments on the B-sides. Simply rendered with just an acoustic guitar accompanying her vocals, the records rocketed her to fame. Her achingly vulnerable vocal delivery seemed to so accurately express the sorrow and discontent of the working class that she became known as ‘the bitter sound of Turkey.’ Yet this also marked the beginning of years of persecution by right-wing authorities who perceived her records as criticism. Selda was banned from performing on the state-owned channel, TRT TV, but this heavy-handed censorship only cemented her legacy as a figurehead for persecuted leftists. “The system was opposed to my songs,” she told me, “But even the people who said they hated my songs listened to me, in secret, because I do my own country’s folk music, the cultural music, the roots.”

After a string of politically outspoken hit singles (also released on the Türkülerimiz series of compilations), Selda released her self-titled debut album in 1976. With backing from Anadolu psych pioneers Moğollar, she pursued an electrified departure from her acoustic roots, with urgently strident vocals to match. The album delivered a mixture of original compositions and arrangements of lyrics by left-wing figures such as Aşik Mahzuni Şerif, further consolidating her role as champion of the poor and a scathing critic of the right-wing establishment. On Şerif’s ‘Meydan Sizindir’, she sings: ‘The sweat of the working class mixes with the soil. Do any of our masters know how to cry? Today is yours but tomorrow is ours.’

But Selda’s views began to catch up with her and the installation of a more repressive right-wing junta after the military coup of September 1980 had dire effects on her life and career. The authorities confiscated Selda’s passport, preventing her from performing overseas. In 1981, she was arrested and spent 40 days in the notorious Metris Military Prison in Istanbul for recording a song called ‘Koçero’. The tune celebrated the life of Mehmet Ihsan Kilit, an Anatolian bandit, known popularly as Koçero and seen by many as a 20th-century Robin Hood. In 1984, she was detained and held at Metris Military Prison again before the case was acquitted – one of many trials in which she was exonerated. She explained, “I think the system used me as an eye-opener because I was a lefty and a lot of people on the left were listening to me. So, I was made an example of, a scapegoat.”

Despite her years away from the international stage, Selda’s reputation had continued to grow with foreign audiences. In June 1986, Peter Gabriel invited her to play at the WOMAD festival in the UK but, still without a passport, she was unable to attend. However, the election of Prime Minister Turgut Özal’s Motherland Party to government in 1983 and again in 1987 signalled a decline of totalitarian censorship and the beginning of increased liberalism in Turkey. At the same time, Selda received help from an influential advocate. “Peter Gabriel was asking for me constantly, pressing the issue,” she told me. “The government had no choice and gave my passport back.”

In June 1987, Selda made a triumphant appearance at WOMAD, immediately followed by a European tour. Throughout the end of the 1980s and early 90s she toured constantly, both overseas and at home in Turkey, where she gave a series of hugely successful free concerts. Then, in 1992, with the advent of commercial TV stations, her broadcasting ban was finally lifted, bringing her to the attention of whole new audiences. Since then, Selda has remained a galvanising force in Turkish popular culture, a perpetual champion of social justice and a beloved songwriter. She’s a rare and inspiring example of an artist who is utterly prepared to stand by her convictions, no matter what the personal risks may be.

“I’m glad I went to prison,” she told me, “I think whoever is writing songs like me – protest songs – it makes them a better writer if they go to prison. For me, it was beneficial. For the people that supported me, I became a legend in their eyes.”

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