Before the playlist followed the listener everywhere, the cassette travelled by hand. It crossed borders in coat pockets and suitcases, carried dedications between relatives and made the industrial city audible in a language the factory did not speak.
Gurbet was a subject and a sound system
The music of migration was not simply traditional music exported intact. It absorbed the loneliness of workers’ housing, the tempo of travel, amplified wedding halls and the cheap electronic instruments that made a band portable. “Home” became a refrain flexible enough to mean a village, a mother, a street in Berlin or the room where the tape was playing.
An archive made by use
Cassettes were copied until the sound softened. Covers were lost; names were misspelled; a wedding recording appeared after an album track. Those imperfections are historical information. They show how culture circulates when listeners—not institutions—decide what must survive.
The hiss between songs is not empty. It is the sound of distance being handled.
