My dad’s comfort food is a humble plate of chickpeas simmered in a tomato stew. It’s a simple dish, as simple as it can get, really. It’s an unpretentious dish that anyone can revel in as it’s not expensive and doesn’t demand much from its eater. When I was a kid, spending most of my waking hours watching shows primarily imported from America, I’d dreamt of eating expensive things that crunched. Like lobsters of crawfish. Screen-people always made it seem so appetizing. On occasions where my dad took me, my mom and my brother out for dinner, I always closed my eyes while he was driving the car, waiting for a big surprise. In my fantasies we’d arrive at a dimly lit restaurant, white napkins perfectly folded, buttery French sauces awaiting. Whenever I opened my eyes we would be parking in front the same restaurant that served chickpeas. When I asked my dad why he insisted on being seated at the same restaurant each time, he told me that he had specific memories attached to the dish, each manifesting at times where he wasn’t expecting it, making them more memorable. I didn’t understand what that meant back then. Now that I’m at the ripe age of 24 with a lot of spontaneous memories of my own under my belt, I understand what those visits meant and the desire to hold onto the signifiers of memory.
For as long as I’ve known myself, music has been my solace and the way I’ve framed my understanding of life. The most precious connections I’ve had with music were never planned, guided or orchestrated. They simply appeared out of what seems to be nowhere, slipping into my life without warning and growing into something far greater. Some songs become anchors, symbols, tethering themselves to moments I might have otherwise lost to the passage of time. Even years later, when the finer details have faded and the contours of my memory soften, a single note or a few words at the start of a songs can pull me back with an intensity that feels almost surreal. Madeleine de Proust, if you will. If the so called song is representative of a joyful memory, it feels like touching the sun. If it’s tied to a bad memory though, it’s like trying to brush away the residue from a cigarette as it falls onto your lap. When you try to flick it off, it only scatters to make a bigger mess staining your clothes.
Somehow, on a random Saturday, I find the courage to share ten songs from my memory book, the ones that have defined my life.
Justin Bieber - One Time
Yeah, we’re starting from the very beginning. If I am going to write this article, I demand brutal honesty from myself. When I first heard One Time, I was around nine or ten. It was playing on a channel like MTV, the kind that defined afternoons in front of the TV. I had just finished my breakfast and was making my way towards our living room to sit down and chat with my mom. Before I even made it to our green couch, this baby-faced guy on the screen caught my attention and I stood still, inanimate until the end of the song. My mom was on the phone, not realizing that I was at a state of trance. I looked at him, making a silent promise to myself that I would support him through anything. He became my hero, my imaginary boyfriend, and the first person to introduce me to music, even if, at the time, my main interest was his looks. To this day, I still enjoy his music. It’s like a portal back to a time when life felt a little kinder.
2. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Stadium Arcadium
I have a theory that’s mostly proven to be true: your initiation into 'real' music happens through either a cool cousin, a cool dad, or a cool sibling. If you need further proof, just watch Almost Famous. For me, it was my cousin Canberk. He was the kind of guy who would get personalized The Doors bracelets made, treating those plastic trinkets like jewels. He’d always keep his door closed, absorbed in rock documentaries, not allowing anyone to interrupt his sacred space. Naturally, my curiosity turned into a genuine interest in whatever he was listening to. He would give me fanzines on grunge music and he played guitar (of course). He would quiz my brother and me on famous rock songs. Competitive as I was, I downloaded everything he mentioned on LimeWire, preparing for the big showdown. One of his favorites was Red Hot Chili Peppers, specifically, he was obsessed with John Frusciante and the album Stadium Arcadium. Long after the quizzes had ended, I found myself listening to that album with the blue-sealed cover, and that’s when I realized I’d been initiated. Into what, exactly, I wasn’t sure at the time.
3. Arctic Monkeys - Brainstorm
40 degrees of fever, bed-ridden for what felt like an eternity. I was sick for at least a week, trying everything to get better: antibiotics, skipping school more times than I could count, and only consuming liquids. As I was listening to music, out of nowhere, I heard a song on my iPod Nano which was Brianstorm. One of those songs YouTube’s algorithm recommended to me which I seemed to have taken into account without even realizing, the song had already found its way to my device. As soon as the drumming started, I stood up, not with any particular purpose, but because the song seemed to demand it. There I was again, in a trance, not for Justin Bieber this time, but for the intense drumming of Brianstorm. The next day, I had the energy to drag myself back to school.
4. Damien Rice - Cheers Darling / Soko - First Love Never Die
I experienced my first premature heartbreak like a car crash when I was 14: fast, brutal and all-consuming. Whenever I try to dismiss how I felt because of my age, I remember what it was like listening to these songs, and I can’t be that sarcastic and smart about it. I was a kid, listening to Damien Rice sing about himself, hearing wedding bells resonating in his ears like a bad joke as he watched the love of his life marry someone else. I took part in that misery, feeling as though it was the most relatable thing in the world. Having another big heartbreak years later doesn’t absolve the ones I had when I was a kid. I was always sensitive, feeling deeply connected to people over the loss of love, in whatever form it took, even if it wasn’t something I fully understood at the time. When I hear these two songs now, it feels like that version of me isn’t as far away as I’d like to think. It’s as though the 'wedding bells' are still ringing in my ears too.
5. Kings of Leon - Closer
What are Kings of Leon up to these days? If anyone knows, would you be so kind as to let me know? I was obsessed with them when I was around 15. I had no idea what sex was, or kissing, for that matter. But every song I heard from them, only two at the time, Sex on Fire and Closer, made me feel like desire would feel that way. I was right. Closer, to this day, still feels like one of the most heartbreaking, sexy songs ever made.
6. Pink Floyd - Have A Cigar
My best friend came to visit the village I’m from in the summer of 2014. We thought we knew all the secrets of the universe, enlightened by Skins and the art of curating the perfect Tumblr page. We’d swim in a shitty, polluted sea, then come back to the village with our hair still smelling like salt. At 2 a.m., we’d step outside, scream our wishes to the moon, and listen to this song way more than we probably should have, letting it guide our 'bad girl' path. We'd strip our shirts off in a remote forest, lie under the sun in our bras, feeling like it was the craziest thing we could possibly do. Our breakfasts consisted of bread and eggs, and we’d ride in the backseat of two guys' motorcycles. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I saw their motorcycle coming toward mine. We exchanged this mischievous glance, both of us thinking we were the rulers of the village, like no one else in the world could feel as free as we did in that moment. It’s such a strange thing, really, that I’ve never felt as free as I did back then, when I was a kid.
7. Alex Tuner - Glass in the park
I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but I once read somewhere that Alex Turner closed himself off during the entire writing process of “Submarine”, surrounded by candles in a basement similar to a cave, to fully embody the sweetness of what would become this record. If that’s true, then I’ve listened to it just as he intended: a bunch of candles, alone in my room, completely shut off from the outside world. No soundtrack or album ever came close to providing the comfort this one did.
8. The Drums - I Don’t Know How To Love
Back in the day, YouTube’s algorithm was something else. It’s hard to picture now, but there was a time when its recommendations actually felt like they were meant just for you. That’s how I came across this song, and when it played, something shifted in me. The repetition of “I don’t know how to love” hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. It was late at night, too, everything feels different then, doesn’t it? The quiet of the world outside, the stillness that somehow makes everything inside feel louder. That timing, that space, made me reflect on so many things, how I love, who I love, why I love the way I do. There was a rawness in those words that caught me off guard, almost as if they were reflecting parts of me I hadn’t yet admitted. To this day, when things start to go south, my hands seem to instinctively reach for this song. It’s not that it has all the answers or that it fixes anything. But something about it, that vulnerability, has always been a quiet comfort.
9. James Blake - Lullaby for My Insomniac
This song moves like the streetlights flashing by when you're driving late at night. There’s something so simple yet profound in the idea Blake sings about, being willing to stay awake just to share those blurry, quiet hours with someone you love, letting the world pass by while you’re both caught in the same moment. The thought of him forgoing sleep, just so they could be together and watch the world fade into morning, is one of the most genuine and unpretentious expressions of love I know. Every time I’m on a bus, I reach for this song. The rhythm, like the steady flicker of streetlights passing by, reminds me of counting sheep, and somehow it always carries me into the most peaceful sleep, where I dream of the people I love.
10. Mk.gee - Dream Police
I’ve written about Mk.gee more times than I probably should have on Tonitruale already, but there’s something about his music that keeps drawing me back. It’s funny, really, that in a world with decades of music to explore, my favorite album of all time is by a guy barely 25 years old, whose album was released just last year. But that’s the thing about music, sometimes, regardless of its age or acclaim, it finds you at exactly the right time, and when it does, it sticks. Mk.gee’s Two Star & The Dream Police found me during a period of intense stress, depression, and personal upheaval. The album’s watery, guitar-heavy production, a sound that’s as distorted as it is human, struck a chord with me. In Dream Police, he sings about reaching his breaking point, asking for peace but still begging for someone to give it to him. It stuck with me as I have a soft spot for people stuck in the mazes of their own minds.
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