Bülent Ortaçgil - "Suna Abla". In 1973 and early 1974, Nick Drake was alive. In Turkey, Bülent Ortaçgil was alive too. Drake visited France, he visited Milan. Ortaçgil recorded Benimle Oynar Mýsýn. They didn't meet, I don't think. But I like to imagine that Nick changes his plans, that he and Françoise Hardy altered course en route from Bologna. That they made a quiet, secret trip. It looks so difficult, there on the map - by boat from Italy to Greece to Turkey, or by road through the Iron Curtain, through a mess of Eastern European countries. But Nick coulda done it. He could have rented a baby blue car, driven with the windows down, long hours of happiness, his friend Françoise sitting next to him, she singing "Northern Sky" and he smiling at the silliness of it, smiling and driving.

And imagine they make it. They arrive in Istanbul. Françoise has heard about this folk club, down near the university. So they drop in and meet the owner. He's pretty hip, with a long moustache and thick-frame glasses. He serves them a strong tea in small cups. He speaks english pretty good. They ask about music and he says: "Oh-yes, oh-yes. There is music here. Tomorrow night. There is open mic." And they grin at this, Nick and Françoise, at the idea of an open mic in Istanbul. They walk through the streets that evening, smelling smells, seeing mangy cats on old stone walls. In the morning they are woken, in separate rooms, by the muezzin's call to prayer. They walk around, to the market. Nick Drake buys a handful of cardamom pods, just to hold in his hand and smell, till he finally lets them fall off and into the breeze.

When night falls they go back to the club. They are excited, buzzing in their bones, giddy with the feeling of a new city - with the room full of strangers singing songs.

Nick decides to play. He's one of the first and he shuffles bashfully to the stage, taking the offered guitar. Françoise claps heartily. He clears his throat and he plays "Which Will". And he's no more than a few lines in when already there are some murmurs in the room. There are exclamations of surprise, whispers. Nick is not used to having his songs recognised and for a moment he misunderstands, thinking he's offended them in some way. But then he sees the nodding faces; the handful of them that are singing along, under their breath. Some of them know him. Nick's always wanted to be famous, always wanted to have people sing along, but no not here on this day of strangers, on this night in Istanbul. He finishes the song but his face is downturned, hair over his eyes, and he is quiet when he goes back down to sit with his friend and sip his tea. Someone offers them a hookah and he says "No, no," turning away into the shade.

Bülent is next. They all know him there. The Turks clap for their friend. He nods to them. "Thank-you," he says, in turkish. Then he turns to Nick and Françoise. "Welcome," he says to them. Françoise smiles, "Teßekkür ederim," she says, clumsily. Nick says nothing. Then Bülent Ortaçgil plays.

He plays "Suna Abla". He plays it tenderly, carefully, but also gladly: he takes pleasure in the chorus and especially the short syllables at its end. His girlfriend's there on stage, hands held behind her back, relaxed as she sings. "La da-da," they go. Bülent's thinking of Five Leaves Left, which he loves so much, and there's Nick Drake in front of him, Nick Drake hunched over, staring at his fingers. Bülent Ortaçgil sings in turkish but he sings for anyone who will listen; anyone who knows dawns, dusks, entre chien et loup.

Six months later, Nick Drake is dead.

(And Bülent is still performing.)

(Thank you Dylan.)

[buy Benimle Oynar Misin]

---

The Knife - "Heartbeats (OneMusic Session)". The Knife, twice in one week?! Why yes. A year ago, The Knife played on BBC's One Music, and on the show they performed "Heartbeats". It's a strange version, so much heavier than the pinball fizzing of the original, like all of the song's joy has been sunk deep deep in the ocean, where only anchors can trawl. While the synth-lines still run up and down, a voice twisted up in itself, it reminds me more of José González's acoustic cover than of The Knife's original take - they're both tugging the same threads from the song, pulling till there's nothing left in their hands. It's a song for a love dead and buried; yeah, for something drowned.

[pre-order Silent Shout (where this does not appear) / buy Deep Cuts, where "Heartbeats" originally appears / buy José González's Veneer]

---

Dave at Popsheep has posted some lovely tracks by Colin Blunstone, which he says reminds him of Final Fantasy, but there's a ton of Joao Gilberto there, too.

My friend Steph is selling a bunch of funky valentines she designed. I choo-choo-choose you.

Winner of the Cat Power contest to be announced next week. Wonderful submissions (and lots more by email, too). Go a-browsing.