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‘Ik beken kleur, ik beken klank’

Zangeres Karsu Dönmez verloor veel familieleden door de aardbeving in Turkije en zong gisteren tijdens de nationale actiedag van Giro555 de emotionele Turkse ballade ‘Waar ben je dan?’. Ze droeg dit lied op aan haar overleden nichtje Tuna. Doneren aan Giro555 kan nog steeds. MASTERS sprak Karsu in 2020, een dag na een intiem optreden in het Amsterdamse College Hotel. Een openhartig interview over haar achtergrond, passie en vechtersmentaliteit.
Rahi Rezvani

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You were named after your parents' hometown, Karsu Köyü. Do you ever come there?

"We used to spend every summer vacation there. My parents did that very consciously. They wanted to show us what it could have been like: living in a village, where you have to go to the farmer if you want milk. A few weeks a year we were in the middle of nature, had nothing at all, back to basics. Not that we are very spoiled, mind you, but in Holland you have much more opportunities. Karsu is quite an artistic name in Turkish. In fact, many people think it's my stage name. It means 'snow water'. Let me just love summer, haha."

What was your childhood like?

"My parents wanted to raise us very diverse and introduced us to arts, culture and sports. My sister and I were both competitive swimmers - she is now a swimming teacher - and we were both in music lessons. I also enjoyed designing dresses on paper and dreamed of one day wearing such dresses. When I was eight, I most wanted to be able to see into the future how I would fare at 30. And now I would like to go back in time to say to my eight-year-old self: 'You did it! You're on stage with that glitter dress.'"

At the age of six, you wanted to be a pianist.

"I had seen on television a man with blowing hair playing the piano and knew: I'm going to do that too! Later I found out who that man was: Jan Vayne. Especially the passion in his playing appealed to me. It took a while before my parents were convinced. First I tried cello and clarinet for a year. But I still wanted piano. That cost something, while my parents were just saving up for a car. Eventually a white lease piano came into the house. 'Not until you Für Elise can play, we'll decide whether to keep the piano,' my mother said. Within weeks I was playing it by heart. The car had to wait, haha."

Who was your great role model?

"Chopin was my great hero, because of the beautiful graceful lines." 

Did you have your own sound right away?

"Even at a young age I could analyze songs, because by now I was learning to produce, to build songs. With my penchant for classical, my parents with their own music choices and a sister who listened to hip-hop, I got a taste of the different cuisines in the music world. I enjoyed putting all those puzzle pieces of styles together. That's how I created my own sound. What I still do now: jazz, Turkish, blues, Latin, fado, flamenco... I think it also has to do with being from Amsterdam. Look around you in the streetcar: you don't see that in Istanbul - so many different nationalities." 

From the age of fourteen you were asked to perform in public.

"One of the first performances was at a gala at the Krasnapolsky. There I was scouted by people from the American Embassy. They found me so talented that they offered me a scholarship for the University of Rhode Island. So I went to America when I was sixteen. That was huge! Under the title The Leaders of the Future - nice and American! - I attended the Summer School there. I joined a choir, had art and music lessons, and there were lectures by Bill Clinton and others. He saw me perform at Carnegie Hall and when he came to speak in Friesland in 2011, he also saw me play. We had a very nice chat then - he plays the saxophone himself. And I got another letter from him. I thought my mother was playing a joke on me. 'Karsu, there's a letter here from Bill Clinton for you.' But so it really was."

When did you know you wanted to make music your job?

"At nineteen. It was such a weird time. I was in the cinema with my mother. My sister called: there had been burglars in our house, she had caught them in the act. We rushed to Osdorp. There were police. And my father came rushing home from his restaurant. When we were all sitting at the table together, my father said he felt he was being watched. He had his business, of course, often cash in his pocket. 'I've been stalked for weeks by 'world turns on' or something.' My father was never home when DWDD was broadcast, much did he know. Me: 'Dad, what are you saying? That's the coolest television program!' A week later I was sitting there and during the broadcast Matthijs mentioned my father's restaurant, where I played the piano almost every night (the now closed Kilim on the Ceintuurbaan, ed.). The restaurant's phone was red hot from that day on. Lines stood outside waiting for a table. At one point the guests had to come in shifts. My father didn't know what he was experiencing! For years the rush continued. I really did play there for five, six years. At one point, my father pulled the plug. He thought it was unacceptable that people had to buy a ticket for thirty euros for a performance of mine in the small hall of the Concertgebouw, while later that same evening I performed in his restaurant for free. He said, 'You have to become more exclusive.' Then we decided to do one big concert at Muziekgebouw aan 't IJ, which everyone could attend. Then we were done. Anyone who wanted to reserve a table in the restaurant, we referred them to the concert. In a few weeks we were sold out. I wanted to become the best in terms of content. I imposed that goal on myself. I decided to go to the conservatory."

But you weren't hired...

"That was a huge bummer. But I'm glad in retrospect how it turned out. It gave me a lot of perseverance, it made me who I am, it taught me that there is not only one way to success, to your goal. Looking back now, I understand the conservatory very well. I was discovering all things about myself, I was working on my own style... And now when I need strings myself, I do make the requirement that they have done conservatory. I don't feel like fussing in the studio. I experienced that once - the biggest mistake of my life. I did all the production myself, had rented a studio. There I gave the hired cellist the scores I had written. She deadpanned, "Oh, but I can't read. Could we go home together."

No conservatory, what path did you map out for yourself then?

"I did a year of preliminary training at the Jazz Academy, took lessons from Xander Nichting in the early years, later took private lessons with teachers at the conservatory - vocals from Esra Dalfidan and Astrid Seriese, piano from Ferial Karamat Ali - and learned a lot from practice: for example, what do you do on stage when someone else is playing a solo? How do you stand there? I also learned a lot through the Internet. How does Ray Charles play that line? Why that chord progression? How do you write a score for strings? I started working with a lot of different people and instruments, so now I can write for orchestras - I know how almost every instrument works. I formed a band, signed a management contract with Sony. And could have signed with the big record companies. But I didn't. The advantage of my young age was that I understood the power of the Internet. I foresaw that people wouldn't buy records anymore, so I started my own record company. I think the big record companies of the time dropped the ball. Besides, that's how I kept my freedom. Now I can go where I want, put on and make up what I want, play what I want... Draw my own plans."

What was your first big plan?

"Making a studio album. That became Confession (2012), a collaboration with producer duo Nelson & Djosa. The meaning of the title? I confess color, I confess sound: this is the music I want to make. And with that I wanted to go public."

In this day and age, you can't engage with many people live. Are you using social media to stay in touch with your audience?

"The first two weeks of corona, I was really like 'what's going on here?' I was always of the opinion that my industry, the arts, is a luxury. It's a luxury to go to the theater, to buy an album. It's not a basic necessity of life. I just had to accept that; after all, I had chosen this profession. Only during corona did I find out that art is indeed a basic necessity of life, because it connects people. People are looking for something to hold on to. I then became very active on social media. Around Easter, I gave a garden concert for my neighbors. My father filmed that and that video went completely viral. I did the Empty Concert Hall Sessions. I was scheduled to play at the Concertgebouw in November, but that concert was postponed to May 13, 2021, due to coronagraphs. The Concertgebouw had an empty hall available and asked if I would like to perform there."

Fall 2015 saw the release of your third album, Colors. Jazzy, playful and upbeat compositions. Where does creating a song begin?

"A beat, a lyric, a melody. And I'm mostly inspired by books at the moment; I read a lot. Two weeks ago I read the best book in my life: If cats disappeared from the world by Genki Kawamura. The book is about: What if you knew you had one week to live? What would you do then?"

In 2016, you received the audience award of the Jazz Edisons for Colors. What did that award do to you?

"I didn't expect it. Of course I had put on my best dress, because I was nominated. And then my name was called. I was in tears when I was presented with the award. Especially also because I had not been admitted to the conservatory, the Edison formed a confirmation, a relief..." 

...a fat middle finger?

"Also. I got to receive the award, but it's not just about me. I may be the one doing the directing, but I have a great team around me that has worked with me for years. People who dare to say to my face: I don't agree with this. I can act tough and say I know it all, but I don't. Some have an even better idea, an even more beautiful lighting plan... I am very happy with my team."  

Your fourth album is called Karsu (2019). Why your own name?

"I very much want to live the way I want. I want to be true to myself, make my own choices. That's what this record is about. The message of the song Sana Ne - freely translated: mind your own business - is: 'Try to detach yourself from that eternal pressure of other people's opinions. Decide for yourself your choice of study, who you marry and whether you want children.' We women are often asked: 'Are you already married? Do you already have children? My friend is not asked that."

You have your Edison, you have descended the stairs of the Concertgebouw ... What more do you want?

"I find that I can also offer affection, comfort and cheerfulness through social media. But I miss people immensely. I do feel lonely during a garden performance. I can't wait for a performance in a full Concertgebouw. That's what I want."

Masters #44

MASTERS #44