Bahadir Efeoglu

Author: Bahadir Efeoglu

  • Living Like a Cry: A True Berliner Vibe from Frank Duval

    Living Like a Cry: A True Berliner Vibe from Frank Duval

    So here I am, writing this late at night, headphones on, revisiting an album from 1984 that I bought for a few euros. The sound feels timeless. It connects Berlin then to Berlin now. And for me, it’s a reminder that great art often comes to us not when we expect it, but when we’re open to digging through the crates.

    Since I got my record player back in 2024, I knew I was stepping into an expensive hobby. My friends were spending more and more on vinyl records, and I could already see where this road could lead. But while I don’t mind spending money on things that make me feel good and connected, I decided to turn it into a little game instead.

    I gave myself a modest challenge: a €12 weekly pocket money budget, and only flea markets. That’s it.

    Berlin flea markets are amazing for this kind of hunt. You can sometimes find things for free, or snag a real gem for just a few euros. One of those lucky Sundays, I stumbled upon Living Like a Cry—a Frank Duval vinyl for next to nothing. TELDEC pressings are generally quite cheap here in Germany, mostly because they were mass-produced and are still circulating widely. But the value isn’t in the price—it’s in the experience.

    Who is Frank Duval?

    Frank Duval was born in Berlin in 1940, and his career reflects a life shaped by the arts. He started in acting and dance before turning to composition in the late 1960s. His big break came through television, scoring episodes for the crime drama Tatort, and later creating a vast body of work for Derrick and Der Alte—two German shows that defined an era of TV soundtracks.

    You can hear Berlin in his music—especially the haunting loneliness and grandeur that defined the Cold War-era city. His blend of orchestral depth and electronic textures positions him adjacent to the Berlin School of electronic music.

    The Berlin School Sound

    The Berlin School isn’t a formal school, but a movement—pioneered in the 1970s by groups like Tangerine Dream, Klaus Schulze, and Ashra. The genre is characterized by ambient soundscapes, layered synth arpeggios, and a meditative, often cinematic approach to music. It’s introspective, hypnotic, and expansive.

    Listening to Living Like a Cry, especially late at night with headphones on, I felt that connection. Duval’s work leans more emotional and romantic than strictly experimental, but the DNA is there: the long instrumental passages, the synthesizer landscapes, the sense of traveling inward.

    That’s why I’d place Duval somewhere spiritually close to Bohren & der Club of Gore—another group I love. While Bohren blends ambient jazz with doom-like pacing, they share the same commitment to mood, space, and subtle narrative.

    Inside Living Like a Cry

    Released in 1984, the album was pressed using TELDEC’s Direct Metal Mastering (DMM) process and proudly labeled “DIGITAL”—a sign of its modernity at the time. Isn’t it funny now that we are listening to vinyl as analog nostalgia, while they were proudly advertising even the tiniest bit of digital fidelity?

    Duval recorded with members of the Munich Philharmonic, layered with synths and vocals written in collaboration with his wife Kalina Maloyer. You can truly tell which songs were done with Philharmonic!

    I find it quite romantic that they actually co-wrote some of the lyrics!

    I’ve heard that Frank Duval moved to Las Palmas in Gran Canaria. I don’t know whether he is still doing music but maybe one day our paths will cross.

  • To Wake Someone Into Your World

    To Wake Someone Into Your World

    I recently rewatched Passengers—that 2016 sci-fi film where a man wakes up alone on a spaceship, decades before he’s supposed to.

    It was actually my dad who reminded me of the movie. He said he just watched it for the third time and still found it worth revisiting.

    So I thought—why not?

    At first, I wasn’t expecting much. I assumed it’d be another romanticized space story. But it caught me off guard—and the questions it raised stuck around.

    Jim, the main character, is the only one prematurely awoken from hibernation on a 120-year journey to a new planet.

    He’s completely alone. No people. No destination he’ll live to see. Just an android bartender and the slow, heavy weight of isolation.

    If he doesn’t do anything, he would live 60 more years and die lonely in the middle of the space.

    Eventually, in his desperation, Jim makes a decision: he wakes up another passenger, Aurora — played by beautiful Jennifer Lawrence.

    On paper, it sounds like salvation.

    A second chance.

    A god-like act of “giving life.”

    But really, he’s dragging her into the same hopeless reality he’s been trapped in.

    What hit me hardest wasn’t just the ethical dilemma—but how instinctive his reaction is.
    He doesn’t look relieved.
    He looks guilty.

    Almost like a god who just pulled someone out of paradise and sentenced them to exile. His panic says it all—he didn’t “save” her. He stole her future.

    And that made me wonder: how often do we confuse “giving life” or “helping someone” with goodness—without really thinking about what kind of life we’re offering?

    Because sometimes, giving life isn’t a gift.
    Sometimes, it’s a burden wrapped up as kindness.

    That hit something personal.

    I’ve been in situations—relationships, friendships—where stepping into someone’s life felt like an offering. A connection. Something we both needed. But in hindsight, it wasn’t always mutual. Sometimes it was beautiful. Other times, it meant pulling someone into a world they didn’t ask to enter. And I’ve been on the receiving end of that, too…

    We all carry the power to shape someone’s path, whether we admit it or not. That power can feel generous. It can feel like love. But it can also be dangerous if the intent is not clear or is not mutually shared.

    Passengers reminded me that these life-giving choices aren’t always heroic. Sometimes they’re selfish. Sometimes they’re desperate.

    And sometimes, they come from a place of love—but still cause harm.

    There’s a moment in the film when Aurora finds out what Jim did. She’s devastated.

    She doesn’t speak to him.

    She shuts down completely.

    And then, Jim tries to explain:

    “I was so lonely. I fell in love with you before I met you. I wanted you here with me.”

    That line made me think…

    Because it’s not evil—it’s just human. Messy, desperate, imperfectly human.

    And that’s what makes it hard to watch. Because it reflects something we’ve all done in some way—acted from our own need and called it care.

    We like to think we’re doing good. That we’re helping. That we’re offering something meaningful. But sometimes what looks like love is just our fear of being left behind—dressed up in prettier words.

    The film doesn’t try to clean any of this up. There’s no neat ending. No moral redemption. Just two people stuck in a metal box, learning how to live with what’s been done—and trying to find meaning in a life neither of them chose.

    There’s no clean resolution to that.
    Maybe there doesn’t need to be.

    But I do think this:

    Before we bring someone into our world—literally or emotionally—we should ask ourselves honestly:

    What kind of world are we inviting them into?

    Closing notes

    While I was reflecting on all this, I wasn’t just thinking about romantic love. I was thinking about every kind of love that makes us act—that pushes us to bring someone into our lives.

    A dog you adopted. A baby you brought into the world. A friend you insisted on keeping close.

    Love is powerful. It’s one of the most beautiful drivers we have. But it often walks hand in hand with ego, with longing, with the quiet hope that something—or someone—might fill the empty spaces we carry. Acknowledging that doesn’t make love less precious. If anything, it makes it more real.

  • When Tomorrow Started: Unexpected Dive into Synth-Pop

    When Tomorrow Started: Unexpected Dive into Synth-Pop

    It was just another Sunday in Berlin, the kind where you aimlessly wander through a flea market, pretending you’re on a mission for something specific—when really, you’re just hoping to stumble across something interesting. Usually, I’m scanning for old furniture or quirky poster. But that day, what pulled me in wasn’t a mid-century table or a dusty lamp—it was a song.

    There was an old record player playing at one of the stalls. Nothing fancy. But the music it played stopped me in my tracks. It had this slow, hypnotic pull—something between a lullaby and a confession. The song felt timeless and sad, but not in a way that made you feel heavy. It was more like: “Yeah, life’s strange… but you’re still here.”

    We stood there—me and my friend—pretending to inspect the player, but really, we were just quietly captivated.

    No one wanted to break the spell.

    We just looked at each other in awe and slightly nodded approving the song. No words spoken but we understood each other. 

    Eventually, I pulled out my phone to Shazam it.
    Talk Talk – Tomorrow Started.
    I hadn’t heard it before, but it hit something deep.

    Talk Talk: Not Just Another 80s Band

    I knew Talk Talk vaguely—like a lot of people, through “It’s My Life” or “Such a Shame.” But Tomorrow Started was something else. It felt like a different band entirely—slower, deeper, heavier. Not heavy in volume, but in atmosphere. It was cinematic. Reflective.

    That one track sent me down a rabbit hole. I started digging into Talk Talk’s evolution—from synth-pop beginnings to their later, more abstract soundscapes. And suddenly, a whole new world of music opened up.

    The Lyrics That Don’t Scream, But Stay

    The lyrics of Tomorrow Started aren’t trying to explain themselves. There’s something distant about them—like someone talking from the other side of a foggy mirror. But that’s what made them stick. They feel like a conversation you’ve had with yourself on a quiet winter night just before falling asleep, when you’re not really trying to figure things out—just sitting with what is.

    “They never seem to be any use

    It’s just tomorrow starting”

    There’s a kind of tension in the song—one voice feels exhausted, maybe resigned. Another keeps whispering that something might still be possible, although they are the same vocal. It’s not hope in pink clouds. It’s hope on a low battery. But it’s still there.

    A Sound That Breathes

    What really hooked me was the sound. It wasn’t trying to impress. It was just… honest. Synths that didn’t glitter, but hovered. Drums that didn’t push forward, but floated under everything. And vocal’s voice—cracking, fragile, completely human.

    “…it carries emotion without having to shout.”

    That’s what I’ve come to love about synth-pop—not just the catchy beats that people associate with the 80s, but how it carries emotion without having to shout. How it wraps itself around melancholy, ambiguity, longing—and just lets them exist.

    Music discovery is weird like that…

    I didn’t buy the record player that day. But I did start building a new kind of playlist—full of synth-pop tracks that weren’t about escape, but about reflection. I’ve since gone back to that flea market a few times, but I’ve never heard anything like that moment again. And maybe that’s what made it special.

    Music discovery is weird like that. Sometimes it’s a curated algorithm. Other times, it’s a scratchy vinyl in a dusty Berlin stall on a grey Saturday.

    “Tomorrow started with a record I didn’t know I needed.”

  • Spatial Memory in the Digital Age: Why Skype Was a Safe Space For Me

    Spatial Memory in the Digital Age: Why Skype Was a Safe Space For Me

    What Is Spatial Memory?

    Have you ever noticed how certain spaces—whether physical or digital—hold emotional weight?

    There’s a concept called spatial memory (mekan hafızası in Turkish), which refers to the way our minds connect memories to specific places.

    “Spatial memory is the emotional imprint we leave on places—and the imprint they leave on us.”

    We usually think of this in terms of physical locations: the park where you first learned to ride a bike, the café where you met an old friend, or even the street corner that used to have your favorite bookstore. These places anchor our experiences, and when they disappear or change, the memories attached to them can feel abruptly cut off.


    Losing the Landscape of Memory

    Living between Turkey and Germany has made me acutely aware of how fragile spatial memory can be. In Istanbul, the physical landscape is in constant flux. Shops shut down, street names change, buildings are demolished or transformed.

    “In Istanbul, memory fades not because we forget, but because the streets themselves do.”

    For those of us who return only occasionally, this rapid change can be jarring. The street you grew up on might look completely unfamiliar after just a year or two. The physical cues that once grounded your memories are simply gone.

    In contrast, Berlin preserves the same streets and buildings despite all the historical events it has gone through. I am still able to sit on the same bench that I used to sip my coffee 7 years ago in Berlin.


    The Political Side of Spatial Memory

    There’s also a political dimension to this erasure. Turkey’s ruling government, in power for over two decades, has reshaped the urban landscape to support its own narrative of a “new” Turkey.

    “Spatial memory is not just cultural—it’s political. Changing the space changes the story.”

    By altering the cityscape, the past is edited. The buildings and places that carried meaning are replaced with structures aligned with a new identity. This, too, is a form of memory management.

    A New Kind of Place: Digital Spaces

    But not all spatial memory is tied to geography. Increasingly, we form attachments to digital spaces.

    I’ve used Skype since at least 2010. It was how my grandparents first connected with family abroad. For me, it was the bridge to my family and girlfriend while I was studying in the U.S.

    We would make plans to “meet on Skype at 9 a.m.” as if it were a shared café or familiar bench.

    “Skype wasn’t just software—it was a room we returned to, again and again.”

    Over time, other tools became dominant. I used Zoom and Google Meet for business. These platforms felt different—efficient, functional, but not personal. Skype, by contrast, remained a space for intimate conversations.

    Skype and the Safe Space of Therapy

    In the past few years, especially since the pandemic, Skype became the platform for my therapy sessions. It felt almost like an unspoken pact among therapists: we meet on Skype.

    “It’s almost as if therapists made a silent agreement: this is the platform where people feel safe.”

    This wasn’t because Skype is the most advanced tool—it isn’t. But it offered something else: familiarity, privacy, and emotional continuity. It didn’t carry the stiff atmosphere of a boardroom or the briskness of a sales pitch. It simply worked—and it felt human.

    Maybe it also feels this way because when I log in to my Skype account, there’s literally no one online. This could be why I get the sense of privacy in Skype.

    The Loss of Digital Memory

    Now, Microsoft has announced that Skype will be phased out, replaced by Microsoft Teams. This change isn’t just technical—it’s emotional.

    “Replacing Skype with Teams feels like replacing your grandmother’s living room with a glass-walled office.”

    Teams, for me, is the platform of investor calls and corporate culture. It’s functional, yes—but cold. It lacks the gentle digital dust of old memories and I really dislike the UX.

    Each week when I opened Skype for therapy, I would see messages from 2017 or 2018 in the sidebar. Those old conversations were like photo albums tucked into the corner of a familiar room.

    “Those old Skype chats were like nostalgic photos you see once a year when you visit your grandparents.”

    Now, that room is being locked. And we’re being asked to move on.

    What Happens When Safe Spaces Disappear?

    I haven’t yet asked my therapist what platform we’ll use next. Maybe we’ll switch to Zoom, maybe Teams. But I’m already mourning the quiet ritual of opening Skype.

    “Digital platforms may be made of code, but what they carry is memory.”

    And I wonder: what does this mean for the thousands of others who used Skype not for business, but for connection—for emotion?

    Do You Have a Digital Safe Space?

    We often overlook the emotional geography of our digital lives. But just like physical places, these platforms can shape how we feel, think, and remember.

    So I leave you with a question:

    “Do you have a digital space that feels like warmer?”

    A platform where your memories live, where your conversations linger, where your past gently echoes back to you when you least expect it?