Mojo Beǧolu

After work last night with a belly full of kőftȅ I metroed to Taksim and made my way down Istiklal, diving left into a dingy little alleyway lined with a few clusters of leering Turkish men. At the end of this alleyway is a basement bar called Mojo Beǧolu where one of my students, Bora, was playing a gig. His band played a well thought out combination of Turkish rock songs and English/American classics, all of which, to my ear, were perfect imitations of the originals. The band was communicative both within itself and with its adoring audience, and the energy didn't lag once throughout the entire two-hour set. A fun band. 

Bora's band finished their set and we finished our drinks with thoughts of going elsewhere. I went to the bathroom and by the time I came back out two minutes later the bar had emptied and the next band had started their set. And they were phenomenal. They were a six-piece band; guitar, vocals, drums, trumpet, trombone and bass. The lead singer had that raspy gravel to his voice that evokes images of the smoky, sexy dives of 1930s New Orleans. By that time there were perhaps about 7 people remaining in the bar, and yet the band never dropped pace and were clearly enjoying every second, not for the glory of the limelight, but for the sheer music. I couldn't help but feel a little indignant for them that they were playing at 1 in the morning, almost as an afterthought. An inspired afterthought nonetheless.