Start Listening To: Tendertwin

Discovering the mythical and melodic world of Tendertwin.

In the realm of alternative folk music, Tendertwin stands out with a unique blend of haunting melodies and introspective lyrics. The creative force behind Tendertwin is Bilge, a Turkish-born artist whose journey has taken her across the globe, from Istanbul to Philadelphia, Oxford, and now London. Her upcoming EP, 'Ship Argo,' delves deep into themes of mythology, personal experiences, and the transient nature of existence. In this candid Q&A, Bilge shares insights into her music, the creative process behind her EP, and the myriad influences that shape her sound.

For those unfamiliar with your music, can you tell us who you are, where you’re from, and about the music you make?

I'm Tendertwin — my name is Bilge. I was born and raised in Turkey, lived abroad here and there, and now I'm based in the UK. I write songs about my perception of always moving through the world, and the music takes an alternative folk shape. You can hear many vocal harmonies, sound recordings, strings, acoustic guitar, and the occasional synth.

Your upcoming EP, 'Ship Argo,' draws inspiration from mythical themes and personal experiences. Can you elaborate on how these elements weave together in your songwriting?

I think the way we live our lives is quite mythical — that is to say, it's very past-facing and at times fictitious. We base our facts and realities on elusive things like relationships, love, morals, and social networks informed majorly by the lore we grow up with — essentially crafting our own myths. For me, songwriting is an attempt to understand how I might form these myths about myself and others — is it the stroke of a hand that keeps you up at night, a phrase you remember from your childhood, or the way someone looked at you on the tube? I process these moments by inventing my own stories in song.

How was the EP produced?

I asked a fortune-teller in a veil who I should produce my EP with, and she typed "I recommend my friend Yuri from Honeyglaze. He's really good" on her phone and printed that out on a receipt for me. The rest is history.

The video for "Asking" takes a unique twist on the story of Achilles. What was the creative process behind this visual representation, and how does it tie into the song's message?

"Asking" is a song of resilience for me. It's a brutal and honest conversation with myself — it expresses a raw and human need to be loved, to reach out for a touch, to have the ability to escape thoughts of self-destruction. In the video, we wanted to express that caging, aggressive feeling the voices in your head can cause. We created a story where the protagonist prepares (quite methodically, too, not just leisurely) to endure a disciplinary swim, but then is faced by her own demons playing the game without rules. Beneath the surface of the water is a protective field where she can avoid the arrows, but once she's out of the water, there's no way to avoid the archer aiming for the weakest point. Needless to say, the archer, in this case our own self-destructive half, knows our weakest points really well for proper self-sabotage. Achilles' was a choice to salute the Aegean myths — on a lighter note, the arrow to the heel doesn't destroy her completely at the end of the video. We carry on despite the pain.

Your journey has taken you from Istanbul to Philadelphia, Oxford, and London. How have these diverse cultural influences shaped your music and lyrical themes?

Soundscapes. They grounded me with a lot of soundscapes. I think I cherish that as the most subconscious influence on how I approach music. I was born in Istanbul, the bustling city — I don’t remember much but being in the backseat crossing the Bosphorus while the car radio played imported songs from places like the UK, or feeding birds that crowded the ledges of seventh-floor office windows facing the ferry piers. My dad would play the Turkish saz (baglama) and my sister would sing along with him to the traditional folk tunes from the East of Turkey. I remember the sounds of planes crossing, and I remember summers by the Aegean hearing waves and rustling eucalyptus leaves, dinner conversations of adults around the tables with raki glasses ringing.

The fleeting quality of sound, and how I could refind it in the same place (or in a completely different place, triggering the same response) always fascinated me — like the scent of an ex-lover. All of those cities themselves are places that cradle people from very different backgrounds — there wasn't a particular cultural influence for me in that regard, at least not an intentional one. In those patches of sound, I looked out for the familiar unfamiliar patterns.

Could you share more about the concept of "water dementia" and how it manifests in your music and storytelling on 'Ship Argo'?

Water dementia, in my terms, is the way being in or surrounded by water for a long time can make you demented. The isolation of being out at sea for days or being on a remote island can bring hallucinations; it can cause forgetting or imagining. I was reading "Seven-Tenths" by James Hamilton-Paterson, stories there about fishermen, as well as short stories of a Turkish author, Sait Faik Abasiyanik, who was a native of an island off the shore of Istanbul. These furthered my fascination with the melancholic transience of life experienced near the sea. This delusional quality is something I feel possessed by at times when writing songs.

'Ship Argo' features a talented lineup of musicians. How did their contributions influence the overall sound and atmosphere of the EP?

They are all amazing artists doing their own things, and we were already speaking the same musical language when they got into the room — I'm very lucky in that regard. I had an outline and direction for what I wanted to hear, but the best stuff came out when we went off-script. Everyone was very open to experimenting, be it putting pressure on the bow for a gritty cello, or using harmonizer pedals to create a saxophone bed. The trust we had in the process made it all very special.

What was your experience like working with producer Yuri Shibuichi on this project? How did his approach complement your vision for the EP?

Yuri has exceptional energy in the room, his care is unbelievable. There's never a bad mood! It was always very playful and full of laughs, but taking the work seriously to heart. These processes can be very vulnerable, and I felt very safe through it all. He's both fast and intricate with decision-making, a tough balance to strike — I admire that a lot. We experimented a lot, yet we were still able to get through everything swiftly without getting blocked.

How does performing live compare to your experience in the studio? Do you find one environment more creatively fulfilling than the other?

I find the studio more creatively fulfilling, but the stage more primally fulfilling. There's no replacement for that heart-to-heart pouring.

The EP's title, 'Ship Argo,' draws from Greek mythology. How did you connect this ancient narrative to your own personal journey as an artist?

Ship Argo gets its name from the mythological Greek ship which is said to be the first ship to sail the seas. The wood itself imbued the ship with magical powers, such as the ability to speak and produce its own prophecies. This collection of songs is my ship — these songs were vessels that carried me and kept me safe over the past few years when I was always moving. I find it interesting to detect parallels in how these ancient archetypes might play out in my personal life. 'Ship Argo' was not entirely inspired by these texts, but upon reading them, I was struck by stories of desire and grief — all played out in the same way.

Your lyrics often explore themes of longing and transient existence. What draws you to these particular themes, and how do you hope listeners will connect with them?

The EP opens with the track Always Moving, a semi-instrumental intro that riffs off the ending of Asking — filled with voice notes of those who live far from their language, repeating: “to be light, and fleeting/and young, always moving/believing, sleeping, it's truly confusing." To move is to be always on the go, where the lines of belonging blur. You speak the language of the land you're in, you pray to be let in. The voices of the people I love always seem to be far away. 

I had sent these lines to those in my life who might feel a similar dissociation from their surroundings at times. This could surface through what they wish to express in another language, sometimes through their proximity to a strange soil, and sometimes their unnameable yearning for a place or time where they would feel like they belong. They all sent me back their recorded interpretations of the text — the speed of their speech became the natural rhythm of the track to signal the varying paces of their lives, and I sang the original lines as a three-part melody under it all with an improvised tempo.

Transients, transits, exchanged voice memos, all interpreting a mystery on this one. 

What do you love right now?

The kanun. Tahini ice cream. A book on sponge-makers of Bodrum. Running.

What do you hate right now?

Spiritual materialism.

Name an album you’re still listening to from when you were younger and why it’s still important to you?

Muse - Absolution

This never gets old for me. I was probably 11 when I discovered this — Track 18 on Disc 2 on the Brits 2005 compilation I found at home was Sing for Absolution, and it blew my mind completely. I loved the orchestral influences in it from Russian classical composers; I loved the rage; I loved the vulnerability. I still find these melodies really inventive.

Looking ahead, what are your aspirations for the future of Tendertwin? Are there any new directions or collaborations you're excited to explore?

I'm so excited to record new material! I want to keep exploring instruments closer to my native sound — even though I didn't grow up playing them, the way makam modalities make me feel played through the baglama or kanun is convincing enough for me to push myself in that direction. This isn't a major shift, but mainly a warmer approach towards that fusion as I build on the sound I already have. I'm also exploring pushing my voice in different directions — I'm obsessed with extended vocal techniques in folk singing from the Mediterranean/Balkans, as well as India. They're very specific styles, but I'm keen to see what they will contribute to my writing. Many collaborations underway, too!