Montreal-based singer-songwriter Irem Bekter has always approached music as a space where cultures, languages, and rhythms intersect. With her latest single, “Miscommunication (Lost In Transmission),” she leans fully into that intersection, crafting a playful yet incisive exploration of how easily meaning can slip between us. Lifted from her album The Winding Road, the track blends Turkish folk-inspired rhythms with English, French, and Spanish lyrics, unfolding like two conversations that never quite meet.
Born in Istanbul and shaped by years living and creating across England, Argentina, and Canada, Bekter’s work reflects a deeply lived, cross-cultural experience. On “Miscommunication,” that perspective comes alive through layered textures, multilingual exchanges, and a dynamic cast of collaborators, including rapper Akawui and producer Jean Massicotte. The result is a rhythmically rich, theatrical piece that balances humor with emotional depth, inviting listeners to both laugh at and recognize the absurdities of human connection.
We caught up with Bekter to talk about the inspiration behind the track, her creative process, and how The Winding Road continues to unfold as a journey through language, identity, and connection.
What inspired “Miscommunication (Lost In Transmission),” and how did the concept of miscommunication take shape in the song?
The song emerged quite instinctively while I was experimenting with a drum machine, having fun with the groove. I began mimicking, in a humorous way, couples blaming each other – often driven by insecurities and imagined situations that don’t really exist – which led me to the idea of miscommunication. The rhythm itself, my take on a Turkish folk pattern, and the sounds I used to build the loop, shaped the lyrics.
From there, the structure developed through rhythm and repetition, like two parallel conversations that never quite meet. It’s playful on the surface, but it reflects something very real; how easily meaning gets distorted, and how we sometimes choose not to hear each other.
The track plays with humor and rhythm, how do you balance playfulness with deeper themes in your songwriting?
For me, it starts with play. I’m drawn to the theatre of the absurd, so the final dialogue and videoclip are inspired by that world, with characters in the spirit of Eugène Ionesco. The humour and rhythm create an entry point, allowing the theme of miscommunication to unfold naturally.
Can you walk us through how this song evolved from idea to final production?
The starting point was working with a drum machine, which I kept as the raw pulse at the foundation of the track and built everything around it. Very quickly, it led me to imagine an internal conversation – voices unfolding in someone’s head. The guitar opens that space, letting that inner dialogue emerge and expand in layers.
As the piece developed, those voices became the chorus – a layer of whispering, almost mocking, like intrusive thoughts – along with moments of humour, including French lines that echo “bullshit, you’ve got to be kidding me,” adding a sharp, ironic edge. At that stage, I sent the track to Akawui with these ideas and gave him the space to create his rap. His contribution in Spanish brings a contrasting layer of unconditional love, reminiscent of a desperate Shakespearean character.
The track came together through layering and experimenting with different textures; bass, percussion, body and vocal percussion, keyboards, and Yves Desrosiers’ guitar solo. When I started singing, I unexpectedly began with the chorus, which we decided to keep, and it set the tone for the rest of the song. From there, the work continued at Studio Hibiki in Montreal, in close collaboration with my producer Jean Massicotte. We explored many ideas together, and he played a key role in shaping the song through the arrangements, recording, and mixing. We chose not to over-polish it, keeping its rawness. At a certain point, we simply felt, “that’s it” and that became the final form of the track.
You’ve lived and created music across Turkey, England, Argentina, and Canada, how have these places shaped your sound?
Each place has shaped my sound in a very lived and evolving way. Reconnecting with Turkey after many years was especially powerful because it brought me back to complex rhythms and musical phrasing that naturally re-entered my writing.
England was formative for me. I grew up immersed in British music – from Pink Floyd to Radiohead – and also Leonard Cohen, whose work I read and listened to without knowing that I would one day live in his hometown. That influence deeply shaped my sense of songwriting and sonic identity.
In Argentina, I immersed myself in traditional music, where voice, rhythm, and movement are closely connected, and where the body becomes part of the musical expression. Being close to some of the country’s iconic artists was a defining experience. It shifted my understanding of music into something lived and shared, deeply rooted in culture and community.
And in Canada, I’ve been able to integrate all of that and shape my own voice. The French language, in particular, opened a new emotional and poetic space alongside English and Spanish – each one carrying its own rhythm and emotional resonance. Moving between them is now at the core of what I do. It’s less about blending influences and more about a lived experience that naturally comes through in the music.
“Miscommunication” features English, French, Spanish, and Turkish elements, how do you decide which languages to include in a song?
It’s not something I decide in advance. The language comes with the emotion, the rhythm, and the perspective of the song. Each one carries a different colour and energy, and I follow what feels most natural in the moment.
In “Miscommunication,” for example, the line “bullshit, you’ve got to be kidding me” felt much more playful in French – Foutaise ! Tu me niaises ! Foutaise ! Ah, tu me niaises ! – so I kept it that way. Akawui recorded his rap in both French and Spanish, and the Spanish version had a unique, playful energy, so we kept it. The final dialogue between us was done in three languages—English, French, and Spanish. The English version is on the album, and the other two—we’ll see when we share them. That part is still open, which is exciting.
The idea of two voices talking past each other is central to the track, what message were you hoping listeners would take from that?
It’s not meant to be serious. You can laugh at it, or recognize yourself in it. It’s not about right or wrong but just the absurdity of human connection, and how easily we can talk past each other. It’s also about the groove – I love working with odd meters, and that playfulness is part of the whole experience.
You worked with a diverse group of collaborators on this track, how did each artist contribute to the final sound?
It was very collaborative and quite playful, they really made the song! We explored the track by trying out layers of sound and seeing what would stick. Akawui created his Spanish rap from the ideas I shared, bringing a contrasting emotional layer, and at one point, we kept a take where he ran out of breath because it captured a sense of urgency and desperation, but also added a playful, unexpected edge.
Yves Desrosiers came in with an expressive guitar solo that opens up the track and takes it somewhere unexpected. The rhythm section really drove the piece: David Ryshpan on keyboards, Mathieu Deschenaux on bass guitar, Olivier Bussières on percussion, and Lu Horta on body and vocal percussion, bringing a physical, percussive presence to the track. David and Lu also shaped the choruses, adding those layered, whispering voices that run through the track.
The final form came together with my producer Jean Massicotte, whose artistic vision was essential in defining the direction and identity of the track.
How would you personally describe your musical identity to someone hearing you for the first time?
I would describe it as a cross-cultural, multilingual sound shaped by a life lived across different places. My background in dance and theatre has naturally influenced the way the music takes form – through rhythm, movement, and storytelling. It draws from Turkish, Argentinian, and Western influences, but not in a deliberate way. It’s more a reflection of lived experience, something that has come together organically over time.
How does “Miscommunication (Lost In Transmission)” represent the broader themes of The Winding Road?
“Miscommunication (Lost In Transmission)” reflects one of the threads running through This Winding Road: how we navigate connection and disconnection. The album moves through different states; displacement in Mi Casa (A Migrant’s Story), transformation in Chameleon, and more intimate relationships – and this song captures a moment where communication slips.
It does so with humour and rhythm, so it stays light, but it still reflects something very real; how easily we can talk past each other, even when we’re trying to connect. It’s one part of the journey the album explores.
What kind of connection do you hope audiences feel when they hear your music live?
I hope it creates a shared moment. Live, the music becomes something we experience together – through rhythm, stories, and presence. If people feel connected, whether to the music, to themselves, or to each other, then it’s doing what it’s meant to do.
What continues to inspire you as an artist today?
What continues to inspire me is life itself; what I observe, what I experience, and the people I meet. There’s always something unfolding, something to reflect on. I’m also inspired by the process of creating – staying curious, exploring, and allowing things to evolve.
What's next?
An EP is on the horizon. I’ll be back in studio this autumn to begin new material. I’ll also be releasing a single that didn’t make it onto the album. Stay tuned!
Connect with Irem Bekter: INSTAGRAM
