My inner world has always resonated more with something universal
What does it mean to come from a place that never quite felt like home? For Turkish artist Kris Kolls, the question isn’t laced with conflict or nostalgia. It’s simply beside the point. Her music doesn’t carry the echoes of Anatolian folk traditions or Istanbul’s underground energy. There’s no fusion, no reinvention, no rebellion. Instead, there’s a noticeable absence of cultural imprint — a calm but striking refusal to be defined by where she comes from. That absence becomes more meaningful when you consider the context. Turkey, with its complex blend of East and West, has a rich musical history. Classical instruments like the bağlama or the ney, as well as microtonal scales and layered rhythms, still inform much of the country’s sonic identity, even in contemporary genres. Whether you’re talking about pop, hip-hop or electronic music, Turkish artists often feel the pull — or the pressure — to either preserve, modernise or respond to those roots. For many, making music means negotiating tradition.
Kris doesn’t negotiate. She sidesteps the conversation altogether. “I write and produce every track myself,” she told us, “and each one is an honest reflection of my inner world, not tied to any geography.” That may sound like a neat press line, but in practice, it reveals something more existential. Her latest single, “Feel It”, offers no nod to cultural heritage. Instead, it’s a self-contained space: minimal, self-directed, emotionally open. Entirely written, performed and produced by Kris, the track isn’t looking to place itself anywhere — and that is precisely what makes it interesting. There’s no posturing here. No branding exercise about ‘being global’. This is not someone trying to position themselves between East and West, or showcase an eclectic set of influences. Kris is simply oriented elsewhere.
“My inner world has always resonated more with something universal,” she says. That universality isn’t abstract — it’s practical. Her early musical influences came from artists like Britney Spears, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson. These weren’t distant, exotic names to her. They were emotional anchors. She didn’t grow up dreaming of exporting Turkish culture. She grew up dancing in her room to melodies that felt borderless. And while the music industry has grown more global in terms of access and distribution, there’s still an expectation — especially for artists from outside dominant markets — to carry the flag of their background. To explain themselves. To act as cultural interpreters.
Kris doesn’t offer that story, and she doesn’t feel she needs to. It’s not a political statement. It’s simply the shape of her inner landscape. “Music, for me, is about truth,” she says, “and that truth doesn’t always come from where you’re from. It’s more about internal states than external origins.” What she’s proposing is subtle but important: identity isn’t just inherited — it’s constructed, often from things that feel more like instincts than heritage. A few Turkish DJs who, like her, are moving away from inherited sonic templates and engaging more directly with international scenes. But what makes her stand out is how quietly she does it. There’s no sense of rupture or defiance in her voice. No manifesto. Just a refusal to be boxed in by geography. And in a landscape where cultural identity is often flattened into brand identity, that refusal becomes quietly radical.
Too often, the industry leans on biography to market music, especially when the artist comes from a region that can be exoticised. But art, in all its forms, doesn’t owe anyone a flag. Sometimes it grows in the cracks between contexts. Sometimes it isn’t shaped by heritage at all. And that absence, that space where tradition doesn’t speak, can be just as revealing as any ancestral sound. Kris reminds us that not belonging can be a source of creative clarity.