Saidawi’s playing is a collision of tradition and personal mythology. He borrows the old routes of Anatolian celebration — the ululations of weddings, the martial calls of village processions, the mourning keening that drifts out of winter kitchens — and inflates them into something larger. Notes are not measured so much as hurled; long, viscous phrases tumble into abrupt staccato blasts that rattle the bones. The zurna’s raw, penetrating timbre slices through the air like flint on steel; under Saidawi’s control it becomes both clarion and confession.