Kerem Görsev: “Music is My Sanctuary”

You had rich sources of inspiration in Bodrum and seemed very productive during that time.
Absolutely—the sea, the boat, nature, the forest… My dogs and I would explore the forest together, and those walks were a constant source of renewal. I came to Istanbul for a change, but I still try to avoid the city’s crowds and chaos as much as I can. I love the quieter moments—the evening hours, those pastel shades of dusk. I prefer silence over noise, soft light over brightness. At home, I often leave only the bedroom light on, letting it gently spill into the living room. In that dim, shadowy atmosphere, I sit at the piano, playing whatever comes to mind and jotting down notes. If I add a glass of wine to the mix, there’s nothing stopping me from composing.

You spent the pandemic in Bodrum’s Kemikler Village, a time when many musicians struggled creatively. How did you manage?
I was fine, really—my wife and I made the most of it. I wrote a lot of music, didn’t wear a mask, and spent most of my days outdoors. I rode my ATV through the village and up into the mountains, played with the dogs in the garden… It was a peaceful period. But as time went on, I started to feel restless and wanted to socialize again. That’s when the idea of returning to Istanbul began to take root.

What inspired you to create a solo piano album?
The simple answer: I wanted to. When you look at the greats of jazz history—Bill Evans, McCoy Tyner, Keith Jarrett, Herbie Hancock—they all have solo piano works. I wanted to see if I could do it, too. After returning to Istanbul, I composed “Midnight Melodies,” which will likely be the album’s title. Right now, I’m working on four new pieces, building towards something that feels true to me.

A solo piano album is a bold choice that requires a unique approach from composition to recording. Will these compositions differ from your previous ones?
Absolutely. The new pieces are more legato, with seamless, flowing phrases and no sharp intervals. The rhythm moves gently, without forcing the music forward—you’ll feel as though you’re gliding on a sailboat through calm waters.

What about the recording process?
That doesn’t intimidate me at all. I’m completely at ease with the piano and the studio environment. The studios I work with either have Steinway or Fazioli pianos, both of which I love. For example, I recorded Clear Horizon in Miam on a Steinway that arrived in 2022—I was the first to record with it. It’s currently being refurbished. There’s also a Fazioli in Ayvalık and another in Istanbul, so I’m considering one of those. I’ll take two sessions, settle into the mood, and just sit at the piano—no pressure (laughs).

Your albums always have stories, drawn from real experiences. You compose music inspired by nature, people, and animals. What’s the story behind Clear Horizon?
It actually started with a 1960s interview with Alfred Hitchcock on YouTube. When asked, “What is happiness for you?” he replied, “A clear horizon.” He described it as an infinite horizon line and elaborated beautifully. That idea stayed with me. Later, while we were at our home overlooking Lake Como in Italy, I felt inspired. The lake was like a still plate, the shadow of the mountains reflected perfectly on its surface. Even the flap of a bird’s wings would create ripples. A melody came to me instantly—I grabbed a pencil, and the piece was done. When my wife Deniz suggested the name Clear Horizon, the title fit perfectly, and the album was complete.

Alfred Hitchcock referred to “Clear Horizon” as encompassing cinema, painting, and the plastic arts. You also seem to draw inspiration from beyond music.
That’s true. For instance, a friend of mine, Major General Ergin Ceresin Pasha, a former Air Force commander, attended our recent concert in Ankara. He told me, “Clear Horizon is also a term used in aviation.” Though I’m not much of an arithmetic person, I found that intriguing. I used to sail a lot—on a small boat that even had a tiny piano on board. Many of my compositions came to life during those days on the water. I had some of my happiest moments there. Ferit (Odman) would often join me, drumming on the boat seats with his drumsticks, adding rhythm to the creative flow.

“I only started composing when inspiration struck, stepping into the studio to create an album only when I truly felt the urge. There was always a reason, an event, or a story driving me forward. The melodies themselves would seem to call out, ‘Kerem, write about me.’”

You’re known for being organic and analog, steering clear of artificial intelligence and digital music production. How do you technically transcribe your compositions?
My process is what we call offensive recording. When we step into the studio, it’s all live—everyone can see each other. Someone counts, “Last 2-3-4,” and we start playing. For example, we recorded the last album in just four hours. Even the albums I’ve done with four philharmonic orchestras were completed this way. We’d go in, perform, and leave—all in one day. There’s no channel-by-channel recording; what you hear includes all the accidents and imperfections. That’s the essence of it.

Those are the most intimate and warm recordings. I especially love the faint sounds of cutlery in between. Kerem, you’ve made 22 albums in 30 years—such a remarkable level of productivity.
I can confidently say I’ve never made an album just for the sake of it. I only started composing when inspiration struck, stepped into the studio when I wanted to, and created an album when there was a story or event compelling me. Each song seemed to say, “Kerem, write about me.”

Your productivity is undeniable, but something else stands out: what was the economic benefit of creating so many albums as a jazz musician in Turkey?
The financial return from CDs, vinyl records, and even digital platforms is virtually zero. To finance my albums, I sold my car, my grand piano, my house, and used up my savings. Specifically, the recordings with the London and Prague Philharmonic Orchestras cost me my home, car, and piano. I chose to fund these projects myself because I didn’t want a producer, and sponsors weren’t interested. After one or two meetings, they’d either not get back to me or ask, “What’s in it for us?” The only financial support I received was for the St. Petersburg album—Akın Öngör, a bank CEO, helped a little. Later, I got some small contributions from Ergun Özen, another banker, and Ms. Naciye, a public relations manager. Even then, their help only covered 10–15% of the costs.

I know very well that the physical sales of albums don’t bring in much, so how have the concerts been?
To be honest, concerts are how I make a living. For instance, I have four concerts this month. It should be more, but we’re still trying to make it work. I’ve even established a small company to handle everything legally, issuing invoices for each performance. While I wish I could play more frequently, I try to balance this by performing in excellent venues. We have some truly fantastic concert halls in this country, and I play at festivals across different cities. Playing to enthusiastic audiences in quality venues is something I genuinely enjoy.

You’re one of the most recognizable names in the jazz community and one of the biggest ticket sellers. Do you have a special marketing strategy?
Not really. The only “strategy” I have is sharing concert posters on social media. I’ve never had the budget for advertising in newspapers, magazines, or on billboards. I just do what feels right (laughs).

You played with Elvin Jones in the 1990s—what an unforgettable experience that must have been.

Yes, it was at the Eskişehir Jazz Festival with the Elvin Jones Jazz Machine. This happened in 1998, and I played two concerts. I had worked with his bassist, Steve Kirby, in the U.S. before, and I got a call at three in the morning after Jones fired his pianist at a London concert. They said, “Get to the airport immediately.” I was so stressed that night I couldn’t sleep, and I had stomach cramps. This was a man from the most divine quartet in the world! Two hours before the concert, he was still drinking vodka and hadn’t rehearsed. Meanwhile, I was in knots, practicing syncopation in my room. Five minutes before the concert, he checked the sound and started playing. His energy was insane—doing wild moves, sweating so much that it ended up on my face. It was one of the most incredible experiences of my life.

Your albums are also released on vinyl. Does this have a special significance for you?
Ferit is the one who keeps pushing me about vinyl. You know, he presses his albums on vinyl, recorded in America, and is a true record enthusiast. Personally, I actually prefer CDs. But these days, even cars don’t have CD players anymore. So, I’ve had the last seven albums pressed on vinyl through Emre Plak, my friend Hüseyin Emre’s company.

So, we’ll see you after the vinyl pressing of your solo album… Welcome back to Istanbul.
Thank you! Looking forward to it.

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