The Story of Nilay’s Dream – Part 4
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On that lovely spring morning in 2007, I stepped off the double-decker bus, mapless and determined, trying to navigate my way to Abbey Road Studios. This was the pre-Google Maps era (or at least before it was widely used), so there was an undeniable sense of adventure—a small, nagging worry about the possibility of getting lost and being late. Wandering down the streets, entirely oblivious to the significance of the iconic pedestrian crossing (which I didn’t even think to photograph!), I eventually found the studio with time to spare.
Once inside, I was greeted by the organizers who had traveled all the way from America. There was no grand tour or ceremony; they led me straight to the basement and into Studio One, the largest recording space at Abbey Road, designed to accommodate a full orchestra. It was awe-inspiring, even in its stillness. I was then introduced to a team of engineers, assistants, and the crew from NOTION. Among them was the conductor, Jack Jarrett, who approached me with my score in hand. His copy was marked with conducting notes, enlarged time signatures, and scribbles that indicated a pre-preparation for the task ahead. He asked me a few technical questions about the performance, and I did my best to answer, though the weight of the moment made my words feel small.
Soon, the members of London Symphony Orchestra began arriving, one by one, carrying their instruments. One of the organizers mentioned that the players had received the scores only recently and likely hadn’t had much time to review them. It was a detail that should have worried me, but I didn’t have the capacity for doubt—I was too caught up in the surreal energy of the room. The conductor returned to the control room and informed the engineers that they would record in parts, pausing at appropriate moments in the music.
Then it happened: the first note of my piece filled the studio. In an instant, I was transported to another realm. It wasn’t just sound; it was life. Those abstract marks on paper had somehow transformed into something organic, something that breathed and moved. I was mesmerized, no longer in the room but somewhere entirely beyond myself. It was like watching your child take their first steps, a moment of creation that felt alive in every sense.
My next thought, however, was one of astonishment at the musicians. Their professionalism was almost otherworldly—they brought such nuance and precision to a score they’d barely seen. They paused at a natural break in the music, and as my gaze remained fixed on the orchestra, I heard the conductor ask a question to the engineer. That’s when I noticed: the engineer had the score in front of him, following along. Wait, the engineer was reading the score?
I was surrounded by world-class equipment, the kind most musicians could only dream of, yet I barely knew enough to appreciate it. The room was filled with polite, gentle professionals, each deeply focused on their role. But I didn’t know who did what or how they all fit together in what seemed like a very streamlined workflow. Everyone had a job, and everyone was doing it so seamlessly. It had a distinct air of "business as usual"—from the engineers at their consoles to the musicians tuning their instruments. But today wasn’t about Mahler or some household name. No, today was my day. Yet I couldn’t help but feel the absurdity of it: Inal who? What was I doing here among these professionals?
After the recording session wrapped, I was invited into the live room to meet the musicians. It was surreal standing among them, these seasoned professionals who had just brought my music to life. I thanked them for their work, overwhelmed with gratitude, but what happened next surprised me even more—some of them approached me for suggestions about their parts.
I vividly remember one violinist, who objected to my use of divisi in a climactic section. He argued that it weakened the moment. And, of course, he was absolutely right—I couldn’t believe how insightful their feedback was. These musicians, with just a quick glance at the score and a single rehearsal, could pinpoint issues in the orchestration that I hadn’t even considered. Their level of competence was staggering, and I walked away from that room not just in awe but with a new appreciation for the depth of their expertise.
In the months following the recording session at Abbey Road, I found myself increasingly detached from the person I once was. The determined spirit, the overachiever who thrived on challenges, seemed to have vanished. Instead, I spent my days doing little to no music, making new friends, and passing time aimlessly. Looking back, it was likely the consequence of burnout. Abbey Road had been the climax of a seven-year journey—from knowing almost nothing about music to composing for an orchestra. It was exhilarating, yes, but also overwhelming.
It felt as if I had skipped to the last page of a novel, experiencing the conclusion without fully living the story. Was the magic gone? To some extent, yes. But it wasn’t disillusionment—it was a realization. Determination and experience are not the same thing. At 24, like many at that age, I believed determination was the ultimate key to success. Abbey Road taught me otherwise. Determination had gotten me there, but it was experience—the depth and wisdom gained over time—that truly mattered.
Well, at least those were some of my thoughts at the time. So, I decided to take things a little slower, to discover other music-making practices, to get to know myself further. Who was Inal anyway? Who was it going to be? I had a strong feeling of standing on a threshold, what would future hold for me?
I knew something needed to change. I needed to reshape and reconsider my journey in music. At some point, I began exploring the idea of making music with my computer. I was already proficient with notation software, but I had little experience with music production tools. However, my first foray into multitrack recording predated any awareness that such things could be done with computers.
Back then, it was just me, a double-deck cassette tape machine, and a stroke of accidental discovery. I found that I could record both the microphone input and the playback from the other tape deck simultaneously. This meant I could record a guitar part onto Deck B, then play it back while layering a new part onto Deck A. By switching the tapes back and forth, I could keep adding layers—guitars, vocals, anything I could imagine.
Of course, there was a catch. With each overdub, the sound quality degraded noticeably. The hiss grew louder, the recordings fuzzier. But that didn’t matter. With each new layer, I was uncovering something magical: the joy of building a piece of music, part by part, and hearing it come alive for the first time. It was rudimentary and raw, but it planted the seed for something greater.
In the year 2000, our school’s flute teacher, Eran Raman, introduced me to Cakewalk, my first DAW (Digital Audio Workstation). With my prior experiments using cassette tapes, I instantly grasped the potential of this software. The timeline, the thin lines marking bars, the BPM, the ability to layer tracks and blend MIDI with audio—it all made perfect sense. This was a whole new world, and once I glimpsed it, there was no going back.
Still, with my schoolwork and compositions demanding most of my attention, computer music remained an occasional pastime. It was a fun, creative escape, nothing more. Later, during my university years, a friend introduced us to Reason. Unlike Cakewalk, Reason felt like a toy—a playground for beats and loops. We spent hours messing around, building tracks just for fun. But that’s all it was—an entertaining diversion, never something I took seriously.
Fast forward to a period when I had nearly stopped making music altogether, I met a Cypriot musician in London, Emre Yazgın, who introduced me to Cubase—yet another DAW. Within a year, I was up and running, composing again with a newfound enthusiasm. London life, along with my growing circle of friends and connections, exposed me to a wide array of musical styles.
In one memorable night, a friend introduced me to Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompeii. While I was familiar with the band and some of their music, I hadn’t been a fan and had no idea this concert existed. Watching it was transformative. The music, with its narrative and expressive power, used minimal material to evoke something profound. Minimal, at least, compared to the dense, complex structures I had been immersed in while studying 20th-century and avant-garde music.
That night sparked a shift in my thinking—a process I now call "unlearning." It was about stepping back from the intricate frameworks I’d studied and embracing simplicity and storytelling in music. With Emre’s guidance and encouragement, this process culminated in the release of my first album, A New Beginning.
The rest of the story—including my move back to Cyprus and my subsequent musical endeavors—is a tale for another day. But one thing is certain: I didn’t attempt to write any other orchestral music for the next fifteen years. Over time, I moved away from what I once considered my roots—the contemporary-classical composition education that had defined my early years.
Yet, life has a way of circling back. A chain of events brought me to where I am today, the release of Sleepwalker, my first orchestral piece since Nilay’s Dream. It began when I became a father, was shaped by the introspection of the pandemic, and deepened further by facing an unfortunate medical condition. These experiences combined to force me to rethink my past and reimagine my future.
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