Deniz Yildiz loved European classical music, from Bach, to Beethoven to Stravinsky. But he despised so-called Turkish classical. In his eyes – or his ears, rather – it was high-end jibberish: stuffed suits, stuffed music, absurdly assembled in the manner of an orchestra.

Dolmuş musik. Stuffed music.

The Anatolian folk melodies they played were strangled, stripped of their beauty, distorted by over-sophistication.

Whenever he saw one of these assemblages on TV, he would sarcastically proclaim, to whoever would listen:

“Once again, ladies and gentlemen, the Massacre Orchestra!”

The Massacre Orchestra: Deniz liked the sound of that, so when he formed his own group, he kept the name.

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The Massacre Orchestra consisted of Deniz on lead vocals, with his best friend Yavuz on lead guitar, a quiet friend from school named Barış on bass, and an older guy named Savaş on drums. They were a metal band, drawing inspiration from Metallica, Guns n’ Roses, as well as the legendary Barış Manço, who was influential in bringing Western rock sounds to Turkish pop music.

Deniz, who had just turned 23, modeled his stage image and vocal style on Axl Rose. He grew his black hair long, sported a trim beard as well as a series of tattoos on his arms and chest. Also, Deniz was thin and wiry like the young Axl Rose, and adopted a cagey, volatile persona that he found suited him (although his bandmates weren’t always thrilled, like the time Deniz smashed a beer bottle during a gig in Kadıköy and almost got them all arrested).

But they did have some success. A Facebook page listed some 700 likes, and they also had as many followers on Twitter. They played impromptu shows at places in and around Kadıköy that went over well. Initially the repertoire consisted of Metallica, GnR and other covers. The crowds always responded well to “Nothing Else Matters” and “Don’t Cry,” perennial favorites among the young Turks.

But Deniz especially began to get bored with this routine (he got bored very easily), and wanted to try his hand at writing his own material. Yavuz, the lead guitarist (his “Slash”), was generally in agreement, and the two of them would stay up late at night, smoking crappy local weed, drinking Efes beer, and trying to put some musical meat on Deniz’s lyrical experiments. Naturally, the lyrics were derivative, sounding a lot like his heroes, talking about the “system,” about how the people were “slaves” and that their “blood was being sucked while they dreamed awake,” stuff like that. They did manage to complete their first original composition, “Monkeys Control the World!” which was an epic rampage against the world’s political machinery, delivered with Deniz’s sneering, accusative vocals.

But just as the Massacre Orchestra appeared poised for carnage, imploded, which is not unusual for young bands. Barış and Savas, the more passive members of the group, began to tire of being dominated by Deniz and Yavuz, and especially of Deniz’s relentless poses, as well as his drinking and reckless stage behavior. Besides, they wanted to move the band in a different direction. The drummer, Savas, in particular, had been listening to Tool of late, and was attracted by that sound.

Barış and Savas found a singer of their own and left the band. Yavuz and Deniz quarreled, mostly about Deniz’s “bitchy” attitude, and they parted bitterly.

Thus, Deniz was left to carry on as the sole survivor of the Massacre Orchestra.

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Actually, it was better this way, Deniz thought. He was a good guitar player himself, after all. And now, unemcumbered by the necessity of pacifying and catering to other bandmates, he was free to approach the music the way he had always wanted.

“Fuck the system and its cancerous compromises!” he said aloud.

Spring was slowly making its way to the city, although the afternoons were still rainy. One afternoon, the power was out all over the city; the traffic lights weren’t working, forcing people to just take their chances crossing the clogged streets. Even the metro was shut down, and the cafes were full of people drinking coffee and trying fruitlessly to find an Internet connection.

It was a perfect opportunity, Deniz thought, to go out and get a feel for his new musical direction. He took his guitar and walked down to the waterfront. The Bosphorous was thick and gauzy, with lots of people out walking. He set up camp on some rocks, with the far side of the city lost in a blanket of fog, and began playing. The dreary weather informed his playing, as he warmed up with Guns ‘N’ Roses “Patience.” “Sad woman, take it slow,” he sang, with rustic passion, “And things will work out fine/All we need is just a little patience.”

After the Guns ‘N’ Roses, Deniz paused and tuned his guitar. He lit a cigarette and stared across the water. Nearby, he noticed some young girls, students from the nearby lycee, were watching him shyly. He grinned, and winked, then turned back to his guitar. He would give them one of his newest compositions, “Master Melancholy,” which was a roaring indictment of what he dubbed, “The people, who wait for destiny to arrive/while Master Melancholy rules their lives”

Deniz was enjoying singing this one, looking over now and again to check the response of the young girls. Just then, a handful of guys approached. They were toughs, probably Besiktas fans he thought.

“Where are you from?” one of them asked.

“I’m Turkish,” Deniz answered, continuing to strum the guitar. He didn’t feel like talking, and wanted to keep playing.

“You’re Turkish?” the first tough asked. “Then, why are you playing that yabancı shit? Don’t you know any Turkish songs?”

Ah, great, Deniz thought. Another douchebag nationalist, of the type that get offended at the merest suggestion that the Turks were not the greatest people in the history of the world. He really hoped that by keeping quiet, and just focusing on his playing, that the guys would take his hint and go away.

But they didn’t go away. The first one, who appeared to be the leader, continued asking questions, with his hostility guised in this insistent banter.

“Why don’t you play Turkish music?” he asked again. “Play something Turkish!” The young tough began to sing a song by Tarkan, the popular Turkish singer.

Glancing over his shoulder, Deniz noticed that the young girls were walking away. He decided he would head in their direction, so he began putting his guitar away.

“Where are you going?” the tough asked. He was doubtless offended that Deniz had not shown proper appreciation either for his singing or for the great Tarkan.

“I gotta go,” Deniz said, hurriedly. He zipped up the guitar case, stood and started walking along the rocks. Just then, the tough pushed him. “Who do you think you are?”

“Easy, brother,” Deniz said.

“I’m not your brother!” the tough said, and shoved him again. Deniz, thrown off-balance, nearly fell. He dropped the guitar, and the case clattered on the rocks, falling into the Bosphorous.

The young nationalists laughed uproariously as Deniz in a panic scurried down the rocks, managing to rescue the guitar before the waves took it. But he slipped on the algae and fell down hard. The sting of the impact brought a white heat of agony to his hand, which had broken his fall. His hand was bleeding from a slight cut. This made his adversaries laugh even harder. With a determined effort, Deniz fought back tears.

“Have you got any money?” the tough asked. “Where are you going?”

Fortunately, at that moment, a policeman happened to pass.

“Is there a problem?” the policeman asked. He scrutinized Deniz, and then turned to regard the young toughs.

“No problem,” Deniz said. “I was just leaving.”

“Are you hurt?” the policeman asked.

“No, I’m OK.”

He hurriedly jumped down to the sidewalk, and with scarcely a glance back, hurried along the pavement.

Later, as he sat over a pint of Efes in the Zincir Bar, Deniz went over the scene again, chastising himself. The power was back on everywhere. On the television there were reports that the government was saying the cause of the outage could have been anything, even terrorism was not being ruled out at that point.

Deniz went back to his thoughts. Why hadn’t he stood up to them? Who did they think they were, going around intimidating people? Did they think they owned the waterfront, did they think they owned the whole goddamned country? He could sing anything he wanted, anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted!

After all, wasn’t he Deniz Yildiz? The name meant “Sea Star” in Turkish. What did that asshole’s name mean? Typical Douchebag probably. That’s what a lot of people’s names meant. He, Sea-Star, didn’t yield, or make useless compromises, He didn’t have to. He was Sea-Star; he catered to no one. He had his own voice, his own sound, and he shined over everyone.

He had his Massacre Orchestra: Everyone else could take it and suck it.

He would write a song about what had happened to him.

He would call it, “The Dead,” (“dead-“icated to his Typical Douchebag No. 1).

Later that evening, in his bedroom, he smoked some more of the cheap, local weed and put on Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” letting the lullabye-like chord progression lull him to sleep … perhaps he was going the wrong way about all this, he thought. He knew a girl from school who played the cello, and there was a saxophone player he also knew that might be available. Perhaps he could talk with Yavuz, and convince him about going in a new direction … the Massacre Orchestra could perhaps become Moonlight Massacre, or even Stillborn Sonata …

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James Tressler is a writer living in Istanbul.