| The spirited tunes of Goran Bregovi and his Orchestra for Weddings and Funerals are infectious“Jedan i dva, jedan, dva, tri,” the singer counts off as a trumpet pierces the air, diving into an undulating phrase. |
| The spirited tunes of Goran Bregovi and his Orchestra for Weddings and Funerals are infectious“Jedan i dva, jedan, dva, tri,” the singer counts off as a trumpet pierces the air, diving into an undulating phrase. A tuba joins in with a serious tom-tom and lures the whole orchestra into an explosion of infectious rhythm. An index finger stabs the air; its owner — a man in a white suit — approaches the microphone. “Boom, boom, boom, boom,” shout the speakers. He loses control to the tempo, his feet enthusiastically stomp the floor. “Kalashnikov, Kalashnikov!” cry out the backup singers, looking quite innocent in their traditional Balkan costumes.
The man in white flips a lock of curly hair and smiles towards the audience. Empty chairs smile back. The people who paid for them are on their feet. It doesn’t really look like a song is attacking them, though. A homogeneous mass of flying limbs, the audience seems to be the victim of a WME (weapon of mass ecstasy).
There is no immunity and no antidote to the contagion of Goran Bregovic’s music. For the past two decades, millions of people have found his music simply irresistible. A unique blend of Balkan folklore, Gypsy spice and a pinch of Western flavor, his melodies are food for the soul. Bregović recommends consuming them with a shot of šljivovica (homemade Balkan liquor), which is what he himself often practices on stage, though always in moderation. To commemorate this lasting relationship between music and the alcoholic drink, he named his latest album Alkohol.
With or without additional substances, the music of Bregović and his Orchestra for Weddings and Funerals won’t let you go. The sweet voice of the king of Roma music, the late Šaban Bajramović, gently picks you up. The flirtatious ululations of folk divas Daniela and Ludmila Radkovi pinch your side, which is already moving to the rhythm of the music. Trumpet master Bokan Stanković strokes your ear and pulls you into a blissful hypnosis. You close your eyes, spread out your arms, snap fingers to the rhythm, and give it a little shake. By now you have surrendered to the Balkan spirit.
The trap you fall into is artfully set up. You won’t know how and why you fell into it because you’ve never heard it on MTV or any other popular music broadcaster. And yet, you have the feeling that you’ve listened to classics like “Kalashnikov,” “Mesečina,” or “Erdelezi” all your life.
A YouTube search for Bregovicć will get you only live performances because he never sings for the camera; he only sings for the people. He is one of those few authentic performers that doesn’t go to work when he climbs onstage; he goes to party. There are no rehearsals, no choreography. Bregović basically takes his audience of a few thousand to a cozy Balkan mehana (tavern) around the corner and throws a late-night party for them. He sings the joy, the confusion and the pain of being Balkan, of being “former Yugoslav,” of being a unique mix of so many vibrant cultural influences and yet being forced to divide and draw random borders. His own background illustrates the essence of being Balkan: He was born in Sarajevo, Bosnia to a Serbian mother and a Croatian father, and in the tumultuous 1990s he married a Muslim.
Bregović, however, has not succumbed to easy emotion and delved into politics. He has chosen to do something much more important. With his band of 40 brass and string musicians, folk singers and a male choir, he has opened the door of his mehana to perform for us in happiness and in sorrow, making us forget differences and embrace understanding. |
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