Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Gospodar flipera
Laci je bio muskarac u kasnim tridesetim ili mozda ranim cetrdesetim. Niskog rasta, crnomanjastog tena i cudnog naglaska, odavao je besprijekorno da mu porijeklo nije iz nasih krajeva.
Laci je drzao salon zabavnih igara ili sto bi danas rekli, entertainment center. Laci je bio gospodar flipera.
Nazalost, njegov je salon zabave bio smjesten na pet minuta hoda od moje zgrade. Sav mukotrpno skupljen dzeparac, svaki dobiveni dinar, svako dnevno monetarno sledovanje roditelja, namjenjeno za hljeb i mlijeko, zavrsavalo je kod Lacija.
Sam salon je bio skroman. Montazna kucica, vise nalik na ostavljenu kamp prikolicu nego na mjesto gdje nestaje tvoj novac i kratkotrajno uzbudjenje, nije pruzalo sliku privlacnosti i zelje da se tamo duze zadrzavas. Na samom ulazu prodavali su se zetoni gdje te je cekao zesci momak zajebanog pogleda koji je svoj posao shvacao ozbiljno i sa respektom. Odmah te je na pocetku upozorio da nema tiltanja odnosno drmanja flipera inace letis napolje bez daljnjeg raspravljanja.
U sredini su se nalazili karamboli odnosno stoni fudbal, a odmah do njih smjestio se dzuboks iz kojeg je dopirao hrapav glas Joan Jett. Dim cigare je bio sveprisutan.
Glavno su mjesto zauzimali fliperi. Uredno poredani uzduz jednog od zida, izgledali su kao staticni polubogovi sto cekaju svoje zrtve na oltaru zabave. Moderan dizajn, elektronsko brojanje i strani nazivi sto ih tesko pamtis, fliperi kod Laciju su, bez pretjerivanja, bili ispred svog vremena.
I kad prva kuglica krene i kad se upale sve lampice sarene i kad se cuju metalni zvukovi potencijalnog bonusa ili dobro odigrane partije, i kad adrenalin uzbudjenja proradi unutar tebe, najezis se sav. Drhtaj vaznosti, pripadanja necemu, u potpunosti, prozima te. Htio ili ne , naprosto, mamili su te. Imali su magicnu moc. I swear.
Pored onog koji je s fliperom u kostac direktno uhvacen bio, nalazila su se jos , najmanje dva, promatraca iliti kibica. Oni su svojim strucnim savjetima nagovjestali sljedeci potez ili su samo poluotovrenih usta nijemo promatrali fliperske loptice let.
U sjeni flipera, stidljivo, sa strane, nalazile su se video-igre, njih dvije, eventualno, tri. Nekakvi ratovi zvijeda, svemirske letjelice cudnog oblika, komanda milion, a meni najdrazi, bijase, Pacman.
Jednostavan za rukovanje i prepoznatljivog zvuka , Pacman se prosto lijepo za tebe. Tu sam znao cekati satima da bih dosao na red, a potom, cvrsto drzeci joystick u desnoj saci, trazio spas bjezeci od elektronskih duhova sto su pojesti me htjeli.
Nekako s krajem osnovne skole Laci se preselio u drugi dio grada. Nekako u isto vrijeme gramofonska igla i hormoni probudjeni preuzimali su primat nad fliperima. Ubrzo, prestao sam odlaziti kod njega.
Mada su sjecanja na gospodara flipera daleka i dan danas odem online, potrazim Pacmana i za trenutak bjezim od briga i sarenih duhova sto jos uvijek pojesti me zele.
Laci je drzao salon zabavnih igara ili sto bi danas rekli, entertainment center. Laci je bio gospodar flipera.
Nazalost, njegov je salon zabave bio smjesten na pet minuta hoda od moje zgrade. Sav mukotrpno skupljen dzeparac, svaki dobiveni dinar, svako dnevno monetarno sledovanje roditelja, namjenjeno za hljeb i mlijeko, zavrsavalo je kod Lacija.
Sam salon je bio skroman. Montazna kucica, vise nalik na ostavljenu kamp prikolicu nego na mjesto gdje nestaje tvoj novac i kratkotrajno uzbudjenje, nije pruzalo sliku privlacnosti i zelje da se tamo duze zadrzavas. Na samom ulazu prodavali su se zetoni gdje te je cekao zesci momak zajebanog pogleda koji je svoj posao shvacao ozbiljno i sa respektom. Odmah te je na pocetku upozorio da nema tiltanja odnosno drmanja flipera inace letis napolje bez daljnjeg raspravljanja.
U sredini su se nalazili karamboli odnosno stoni fudbal, a odmah do njih smjestio se dzuboks iz kojeg je dopirao hrapav glas Joan Jett. Dim cigare je bio sveprisutan.
Glavno su mjesto zauzimali fliperi. Uredno poredani uzduz jednog od zida, izgledali su kao staticni polubogovi sto cekaju svoje zrtve na oltaru zabave. Moderan dizajn, elektronsko brojanje i strani nazivi sto ih tesko pamtis, fliperi kod Laciju su, bez pretjerivanja, bili ispred svog vremena.
I kad prva kuglica krene i kad se upale sve lampice sarene i kad se cuju metalni zvukovi potencijalnog bonusa ili dobro odigrane partije, i kad adrenalin uzbudjenja proradi unutar tebe, najezis se sav. Drhtaj vaznosti, pripadanja necemu, u potpunosti, prozima te. Htio ili ne , naprosto, mamili su te. Imali su magicnu moc. I swear.
Pored onog koji je s fliperom u kostac direktno uhvacen bio, nalazila su se jos , najmanje dva, promatraca iliti kibica. Oni su svojim strucnim savjetima nagovjestali sljedeci potez ili su samo poluotovrenih usta nijemo promatrali fliperske loptice let.
U sjeni flipera, stidljivo, sa strane, nalazile su se video-igre, njih dvije, eventualno, tri. Nekakvi ratovi zvijeda, svemirske letjelice cudnog oblika, komanda milion, a meni najdrazi, bijase, Pacman.
Jednostavan za rukovanje i prepoznatljivog zvuka , Pacman se prosto lijepo za tebe. Tu sam znao cekati satima da bih dosao na red, a potom, cvrsto drzeci joystick u desnoj saci, trazio spas bjezeci od elektronskih duhova sto su pojesti me htjeli.
Nekako s krajem osnovne skole Laci se preselio u drugi dio grada. Nekako u isto vrijeme gramofonska igla i hormoni probudjeni preuzimali su primat nad fliperima. Ubrzo, prestao sam odlaziti kod njega.
Mada su sjecanja na gospodara flipera daleka i dan danas odem online, potrazim Pacmana i za trenutak bjezim od briga i sarenih duhova sto jos uvijek pojesti me zele.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Thursday, 22 April 2010
The intersection
I can still remember that night as if it was yesterday. It was almost the end of May and the weather was getting warmer. I was lying in my bed trying to fall asleep to no avail. Upset by the late afternoon events, the stream of thoughts was wandering through my head. There was nothing else to do than stay at home and wait. Suddenly, a penetrating power cut the air in half. A deafening noise followed by an ominous silence woke the night up. The fear of the unknown made me numb. What is going on?
Just a few months ago everything seemed normal. At least on the surface, the city routinely lived its ordinary life. However, the ethnic clashes were already raging in a neighboring country and the clouds of uneasiness were firmly floating above us. The lingering question of the warfare was inevitable. Were we going to be involved? How can you predict unpredictable? How to choose a right side with no regret?
It was like living in a bubble that could burst any time soon. The recent political changes brought changes within us as well. But who could think about the war?
Politics was not our favorite subject. Soon, however, it would become part of us.
Three of us had known each other since early childhood. Whenever possible we would get together at least for a walk or a short chat. Without hesitation, we could discuss everything even the sensitivity of the looming war. We were friends.
Emir was a skinny, tall guy usually wearing thin framed glasses and a brown leather jacket. He had a silver earring and a charismatic smile. Eloquent and intelligent, he was full of a self-confidence that helped him get along with almost everyone. He was interested in politics and he firmly backed up his beliefs although he seemed sometimes controversial. He abhorred the rising power of nationalism and he was ready to confront it.
Bakir was almost the same height and body frame as Emir but was slightly crouched. He had longer hair, smoked a lot, and usually dressed in jeans. He was a quiet guy of few words and a huge, patriotic heart. He did not make too much fuss about politics, but he understood things well. We were in the middle of historical turmoil and our lives were about to change.
“What do you think is going to happen with our country? Could this nationalistic awakening be resolved peacefully?” asked Emir, trying unsuccessfully to hide his anxiety.
“I wish I were wrong” said Bakir quietly, “but the atmosphere among people is already electrified. The emotions are running high. “
I do not want to philosophize and sound pessimistic, but once the blood is spilt there is no return”, I said somberly.
“You’re right. Do not philosophize.” Emir replied grinning slightly.
Our city was a commercial center of the region with well-developed chemical and mining industries. There was not much sight-seeing although the surroundings, a green valley and nearby river, were beautiful.
It was a gloomy, air-polluted place with a modest architecture dominated by grey skyscrapers. The demographic picture was mixed and it made it unique. After the first parliamentary elections, the non-nationalistic party took power and we were proud of ourselves. We believed that we had voted for the right thing that would overcome galloping turbulent times.
The atmosphere in the city was tense but still under control of legally elected officials. Nobody wanted a conflict that would lead to open war and everything was done to avoid it. Strategically, the city was important and negotiations were under way between the military and a fledgling police force that had a legal right to protect its citizens. Although there were minor incidents, city life was going on and the sense of relief gave us a hope for better tomorrow.
“I do not like this situation at all.” Emir said seriously.
“The military is supposed to be non-partisan. I hope they will hand over the equipment and leave peacefully. This agreement seems acceptable for both factions. They have no reason for provocation of any kind.” I tried to sound diplomatic.
“I am leaving tomorrow,” Emir said, instantly turning toward us.
“Where do you plan to go and what are you going to do? We are all under military obligation and you won’t be able to leave the country without a permit.” I asked curiously.
“I have been thinking about it for a long time. There is no future for me here. Regardless of what happens our lives are already changed.”
“What about patriotism? Don’t you have emotions for this poor piece of land? What will happen to our family and friends if all of us will simply leave everything and run away?” asked Bakir, a little bit offended.
“I am not running away,” Emir said raising his voice. “I just cannot imagine myself shooting at someone who shares the same language and cultural background as I do. I just cannot. Call me a coward but there is no sense in it.”
“Guys, guys…calm down. We are all in the same boat. What happens is not up to us. Let’s hope that common sense will prevail.”
It was getting dark and the city lights started to turn on. There were not as many people out as in previous days and the uncertainty of tomorrow was omnipresent. I shivered although it was not cold.
Since early morning tensions in the air were high. The Federal army began evacuating the city. I wanted to go out for a walk but a gut feeling kept me inside my apartment. I turned on the local TV station and listened to the latest news.
According to officials, the plan was to escort the military convoy out of the city. Like gigantic serpent, the armored machinery moved slowly through densely populated neighborhoods.
The intersection at the southern end of the city was completely gridlocked. There was nothing particular about it. Just another intersection, plain and simple, that crossed the city roads. During rush hour it would have been jammed with civilian cars, but now, all you could see and hear were armored vehicles and loud arguments. There was no traffic control and no chain of command. Intersection was out of order.
The armored machinery was stretched for a several blocks unable to move ahead.
From each side of the road, worried civilians rushed to get home safely. Federal soldiers firmly held weapons close to their chests, sweating profoundly. The police forces were all over the place redirecting random cars. The frowning faces in different uniforms exchanged threatening glances. The razor sharp sound of unlocked weapons flew through the air. Everyone stared at each other frightened to make next move. The atmosphere was unbearable and ready to explode. Bang, bang, bang…
A gun shot. A series of shots from automatic weapons froze the time and day. It was the sound of battle and disarray. I had heard a similar noise only on television but this was real and it was not a movie. Instinctively, I jumped off the couch and lay face down with legs widespread. I put my hands over my head and took a deep breath. “Just do not panic, just do not panic,” I repeated to myself.
Alternately, the ammunition explosions and bullet fire kept raging. Petrified, I waited for a quite time trying to recover from the initial shock. The minutes were passing by slowly and my body went numb. Eventually, the gun fire stopped and I took a quick look over the balcony. Huge, dark, cloud rose in the distance. Everything was silent. The night was falling down.
I tried to reach Emir and Bakir but the phone lines were too busy. Without information and unable to sleep, disturbing thoughts occupied my mind making me hopeless and scared. Is this a nightmare? Is this the turning point from which there is no way back? Am I dreaming? Please, can someone wake me up?
Unexpectedly, two mortar shells passed over the building roof and exploded loudly shattering the windows and my naïve dreams of hope and peacefulness. At that moment I knew it for sure. The age of innocence was gone and the following days would be filled with fear, anxiety and a bleak future.
The same night Bakir voluntarily joined the police forces and soon Emir and I were called in a newly established army. The intimidating echo of heavy artillery could be heard in distance.
Sometimes, when the night is calm and I am not able to fall asleep easily, I can still hear a hissing sound that changed my life and made me grown up before I wanted to be. Sometimes, I feel as I am at the intersection again but not sure which direction to take it.
Just a few months ago everything seemed normal. At least on the surface, the city routinely lived its ordinary life. However, the ethnic clashes were already raging in a neighboring country and the clouds of uneasiness were firmly floating above us. The lingering question of the warfare was inevitable. Were we going to be involved? How can you predict unpredictable? How to choose a right side with no regret?
It was like living in a bubble that could burst any time soon. The recent political changes brought changes within us as well. But who could think about the war?
Politics was not our favorite subject. Soon, however, it would become part of us.
Three of us had known each other since early childhood. Whenever possible we would get together at least for a walk or a short chat. Without hesitation, we could discuss everything even the sensitivity of the looming war. We were friends.
Emir was a skinny, tall guy usually wearing thin framed glasses and a brown leather jacket. He had a silver earring and a charismatic smile. Eloquent and intelligent, he was full of a self-confidence that helped him get along with almost everyone. He was interested in politics and he firmly backed up his beliefs although he seemed sometimes controversial. He abhorred the rising power of nationalism and he was ready to confront it.
Bakir was almost the same height and body frame as Emir but was slightly crouched. He had longer hair, smoked a lot, and usually dressed in jeans. He was a quiet guy of few words and a huge, patriotic heart. He did not make too much fuss about politics, but he understood things well. We were in the middle of historical turmoil and our lives were about to change.
“What do you think is going to happen with our country? Could this nationalistic awakening be resolved peacefully?” asked Emir, trying unsuccessfully to hide his anxiety.
“I wish I were wrong” said Bakir quietly, “but the atmosphere among people is already electrified. The emotions are running high. “
I do not want to philosophize and sound pessimistic, but once the blood is spilt there is no return”, I said somberly.
“You’re right. Do not philosophize.” Emir replied grinning slightly.
Our city was a commercial center of the region with well-developed chemical and mining industries. There was not much sight-seeing although the surroundings, a green valley and nearby river, were beautiful.
It was a gloomy, air-polluted place with a modest architecture dominated by grey skyscrapers. The demographic picture was mixed and it made it unique. After the first parliamentary elections, the non-nationalistic party took power and we were proud of ourselves. We believed that we had voted for the right thing that would overcome galloping turbulent times.
The atmosphere in the city was tense but still under control of legally elected officials. Nobody wanted a conflict that would lead to open war and everything was done to avoid it. Strategically, the city was important and negotiations were under way between the military and a fledgling police force that had a legal right to protect its citizens. Although there were minor incidents, city life was going on and the sense of relief gave us a hope for better tomorrow.
“I do not like this situation at all.” Emir said seriously.
“The military is supposed to be non-partisan. I hope they will hand over the equipment and leave peacefully. This agreement seems acceptable for both factions. They have no reason for provocation of any kind.” I tried to sound diplomatic.
“I am leaving tomorrow,” Emir said, instantly turning toward us.
“Where do you plan to go and what are you going to do? We are all under military obligation and you won’t be able to leave the country without a permit.” I asked curiously.
“I have been thinking about it for a long time. There is no future for me here. Regardless of what happens our lives are already changed.”
“What about patriotism? Don’t you have emotions for this poor piece of land? What will happen to our family and friends if all of us will simply leave everything and run away?” asked Bakir, a little bit offended.
“I am not running away,” Emir said raising his voice. “I just cannot imagine myself shooting at someone who shares the same language and cultural background as I do. I just cannot. Call me a coward but there is no sense in it.”
“Guys, guys…calm down. We are all in the same boat. What happens is not up to us. Let’s hope that common sense will prevail.”
It was getting dark and the city lights started to turn on. There were not as many people out as in previous days and the uncertainty of tomorrow was omnipresent. I shivered although it was not cold.
Since early morning tensions in the air were high. The Federal army began evacuating the city. I wanted to go out for a walk but a gut feeling kept me inside my apartment. I turned on the local TV station and listened to the latest news.
According to officials, the plan was to escort the military convoy out of the city. Like gigantic serpent, the armored machinery moved slowly through densely populated neighborhoods.
The intersection at the southern end of the city was completely gridlocked. There was nothing particular about it. Just another intersection, plain and simple, that crossed the city roads. During rush hour it would have been jammed with civilian cars, but now, all you could see and hear were armored vehicles and loud arguments. There was no traffic control and no chain of command. Intersection was out of order.
The armored machinery was stretched for a several blocks unable to move ahead.
From each side of the road, worried civilians rushed to get home safely. Federal soldiers firmly held weapons close to their chests, sweating profoundly. The police forces were all over the place redirecting random cars. The frowning faces in different uniforms exchanged threatening glances. The razor sharp sound of unlocked weapons flew through the air. Everyone stared at each other frightened to make next move. The atmosphere was unbearable and ready to explode. Bang, bang, bang…
A gun shot. A series of shots from automatic weapons froze the time and day. It was the sound of battle and disarray. I had heard a similar noise only on television but this was real and it was not a movie. Instinctively, I jumped off the couch and lay face down with legs widespread. I put my hands over my head and took a deep breath. “Just do not panic, just do not panic,” I repeated to myself.
Alternately, the ammunition explosions and bullet fire kept raging. Petrified, I waited for a quite time trying to recover from the initial shock. The minutes were passing by slowly and my body went numb. Eventually, the gun fire stopped and I took a quick look over the balcony. Huge, dark, cloud rose in the distance. Everything was silent. The night was falling down.
I tried to reach Emir and Bakir but the phone lines were too busy. Without information and unable to sleep, disturbing thoughts occupied my mind making me hopeless and scared. Is this a nightmare? Is this the turning point from which there is no way back? Am I dreaming? Please, can someone wake me up?
Unexpectedly, two mortar shells passed over the building roof and exploded loudly shattering the windows and my naïve dreams of hope and peacefulness. At that moment I knew it for sure. The age of innocence was gone and the following days would be filled with fear, anxiety and a bleak future.
The same night Bakir voluntarily joined the police forces and soon Emir and I were called in a newly established army. The intimidating echo of heavy artillery could be heard in distance.
Sometimes, when the night is calm and I am not able to fall asleep easily, I can still hear a hissing sound that changed my life and made me grown up before I wanted to be. Sometimes, I feel as I am at the intersection again but not sure which direction to take it.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Friday, 16 April 2010
Elvis
Misli me vode prema Partizanu, jednom od klubova (nazovi ga disco ili nocni), tadasnje Tuzle. Tacnije, sportsko drustvo ili zgrada u kojoj su se odrzavale razne kuturno-sportske priredbe omladine socijalizma, nosila je to ime slobodarsko, a u sklopu njenom nalazio se i istoimeni klub. U kuloarima tinejdzerskim slovio je kao rockerski ili sto bi danas rekli, underground.
Partizan je bio skroman kao i vrijeme u kome smo odrastali. Sama sala, gdje se pustala muzika i poneki koncert odrzavao, uvijek je krcata bila i zagusljiva do granica izdrzljivosti. Mix-pult, platneni ekran i disco kugle sto svjetlost prigusenu odbijaju, cjelokupan inventar bio je.
Izvan sale, nezaobilazna garderoba i naslonjeni muzjak na isaranom zidu sto se upucava curama koje su za trenutak od duhanskog dima pobjegle. Uz stepenice, kad se krene na gornji sprat, cekao te miomiris wc-a sto nagriza nepce i siroki sank-bar sa standardnom ekipom lokalnih mangupa kojih muzika bas i nije zanimala. To je bio Partizan.
Nekako u to vrijeme na sceni se pojavise bandovi sto imidzom i lirikom razbise standardnu rock formu i socijalne tabue. Izgledali su cudno, obuceni u demodirane, karirane, gastarbajterske sakoe, imali su cudna imena i jos cudnije frizure. Izgledali su kao raja s kojom se druzis, a pjevali su jezikom kojim se ti svakodnevno sluzis. Neko ih je prozvao slucajno ili s namjerom, novi primitivci.
Primitivci su posjetili i nas. Vijest se brzo siri gradom, veceras u Partizanu, Elvis svira. Nije Presley, a kamoli tamo neki drugi stranac, vec je nase gore list, preziva se, J. Kurtovich.
Na koncert smo dosli ja i prijatelj moj. Dva golobrada tinejdzera u spenser, antilop cipelama, izlizanim, teksas jaknama i malo duze kose. Dva radoznala djecaka slicnih interesa i zeljni zive svirke. Da prica ima autenticnost pravu svoga cu prijatelja nazvati D. Steta bi bilo da zaborav prekrije sjecanje.
Predgrupa je bio Hidrant, legendarni tuzlanski band, i moj se prijatelj otuznim cinio. Mogao sam osjetiti povrijedjenu sujetu djecacku , jer te se je noci na bini mjesta i za njega trebalo naci. Da, moj drug D, sa basom u rukama i adrenalinom adoloscenta u venama, te je noci trebao biti predgrupa Elvis J. Kurtovicha. Ali, cudni su putevi tinejdzerski. Ne znam sta je ustvari i bilo, nesporazum mozda ili je garant management bio los. Kakogod, sto nije sudjeno, nije moglo ni da se desi.
Svirku Elvisa i ne pamtim bas dobro. Sjecam se dobro pjevaca, Rizo, kako pozdravlja raju iz Skojevske i tihog, ljepuskastog, gitariste, Ricl Drazena, koji ce ubrzo Elvisa zamijeniti Jabukom sto su je crvenom zvali i iznenada izgubiti svoj mlad zivot u saobracajnoj nesreci , tamo negdje, nize Jablanice.
Mada i nisam nesto bio u tom fazonu new primitivizma, Elvis je bio unikatni muzicki proizvod jednog podneblje i jedne generacije. Bili su podcijenjeni, ili mozda neozbiljno shvaceni, nikad veliku slavu stekli, uvijek ostali raja, spremni za jednostavnu svirku i neobavezno zezanje. Isto kao i te noci , jednog davnog decembra, u zagusljivoj sali Partizana. Godina je proslo dvadeset i pet.
Partizan je bio skroman kao i vrijeme u kome smo odrastali. Sama sala, gdje se pustala muzika i poneki koncert odrzavao, uvijek je krcata bila i zagusljiva do granica izdrzljivosti. Mix-pult, platneni ekran i disco kugle sto svjetlost prigusenu odbijaju, cjelokupan inventar bio je.
Izvan sale, nezaobilazna garderoba i naslonjeni muzjak na isaranom zidu sto se upucava curama koje su za trenutak od duhanskog dima pobjegle. Uz stepenice, kad se krene na gornji sprat, cekao te miomiris wc-a sto nagriza nepce i siroki sank-bar sa standardnom ekipom lokalnih mangupa kojih muzika bas i nije zanimala. To je bio Partizan.
Nekako u to vrijeme na sceni se pojavise bandovi sto imidzom i lirikom razbise standardnu rock formu i socijalne tabue. Izgledali su cudno, obuceni u demodirane, karirane, gastarbajterske sakoe, imali su cudna imena i jos cudnije frizure. Izgledali su kao raja s kojom se druzis, a pjevali su jezikom kojim se ti svakodnevno sluzis. Neko ih je prozvao slucajno ili s namjerom, novi primitivci.
Primitivci su posjetili i nas. Vijest se brzo siri gradom, veceras u Partizanu, Elvis svira. Nije Presley, a kamoli tamo neki drugi stranac, vec je nase gore list, preziva se, J. Kurtovich.
Na koncert smo dosli ja i prijatelj moj. Dva golobrada tinejdzera u spenser, antilop cipelama, izlizanim, teksas jaknama i malo duze kose. Dva radoznala djecaka slicnih interesa i zeljni zive svirke. Da prica ima autenticnost pravu svoga cu prijatelja nazvati D. Steta bi bilo da zaborav prekrije sjecanje.
Predgrupa je bio Hidrant, legendarni tuzlanski band, i moj se prijatelj otuznim cinio. Mogao sam osjetiti povrijedjenu sujetu djecacku , jer te se je noci na bini mjesta i za njega trebalo naci. Da, moj drug D, sa basom u rukama i adrenalinom adoloscenta u venama, te je noci trebao biti predgrupa Elvis J. Kurtovicha. Ali, cudni su putevi tinejdzerski. Ne znam sta je ustvari i bilo, nesporazum mozda ili je garant management bio los. Kakogod, sto nije sudjeno, nije moglo ni da se desi.
Svirku Elvisa i ne pamtim bas dobro. Sjecam se dobro pjevaca, Rizo, kako pozdravlja raju iz Skojevske i tihog, ljepuskastog, gitariste, Ricl Drazena, koji ce ubrzo Elvisa zamijeniti Jabukom sto su je crvenom zvali i iznenada izgubiti svoj mlad zivot u saobracajnoj nesreci , tamo negdje, nize Jablanice.
Mada i nisam nesto bio u tom fazonu new primitivizma, Elvis je bio unikatni muzicki proizvod jednog podneblje i jedne generacije. Bili su podcijenjeni, ili mozda neozbiljno shvaceni, nikad veliku slavu stekli, uvijek ostali raja, spremni za jednostavnu svirku i neobavezno zezanje. Isto kao i te noci , jednog davnog decembra, u zagusljivoj sali Partizana. Godina je proslo dvadeset i pet.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Monday, 12 April 2010
Spoon
Spoon je indie band iz Texas-a, a sinoc je bila nedjelja. Intrigantno, zar ne? Ovakvog uvoda ni Agatha Christi se postidjela ne bi.
Naime, prijatelj moj, Kanadjanin pravi, Vancouverite rodjeni, prezimena anglosaksonskog i humora prihvatljivog, za koncert me njihov racuna. Spoon je veceras u nasem gradu. Gle, Kanadjanin, divnog li cuda zar i takvi ovdje postoje, pitam samoga sebe? Postoje, postoje cak i mene, namrgodjenog Balkanoida oscilatornih raspolozenja i visoka cela , prijateljem svojim zovu. Brz telefonski razgovor, jos brzi odgovor. Idem.
Nisam bas i neki fan doticnog banda, sve mi je te previse mlako, ali, eto, izlazak je nedeljni zasto ga ne upotpuniti. Kao pravi muzjak slavenski, ostavljam zenu kod kuce, a ja odoh u noc neonsku. Ionako nece da ide sa mnom nigdje, garant sam joj dosadan svojom svakodnevnom pricom, zna sve moje folove i provale, pa je ovo nacin da se i malo odmori od mene.
I bas ko u inat danas sam naletio na neki clanak (vazda mene gluposti internetske pronadju) koji kaze da ako si u braku 50 godina, dnevno progovoris sa supruznikom dva do tri minuta. Ko biva, sve ste vec rekli jedan drugom za te godine tako da vec znate napamet ko sta misli, a kamoli jos da pricate o necemu drugom.
I pravo se ja sad zabrinu. Em zena ne razgovara sa mnom pola minute dnevno, em me pusta na koncerete samog, em ne kontrolise kakve sve gluposti po netu valjam, em me trpi i sutke klima glavom na sve moje nervoze i nezadovoljstva. Tito dragi, sta me tek ceka za pedestogodisnjicu braka? Vostane figure Madam Tussaude i prikljucak za internet? Joj, jest' me krenulo pozitivno razmisljanje.
Evo, nas na koncertu. Samo sto poceo nije. Smirili smo par piva i zavalili se u zadnje redove sale koja vise lici na teatralnu pozornicu nego rock binu (pa bina i pozornica je jedno te isto, zar ne? Jebu te sinonimi, ha? Autor teksta samo-zakljucuje).
Ima kao i nekih predgrupa. Nikako mi ne leze. Sve je to nesto eksperimentalno, melankonlicno, sporo, otuzno. Smor zivi.
Nisam u moodu za takvo sto, treba mi sirova energije, gitaristicki napad, pulsiranje basa, prodornost vokala. Hocu PJ Harvey!
Druga po redu predgrupa je toliko otegla da sam mislio da su Spoon vec odsvirali svoje. I jos sam prijatelja svog totalno pitanjima zbunio, rekavsi u vise navrata, hajmo odavde, vidis da je koncert gotov.
Dosli su i Spoon na red, ali, ja sam vec bio gladan, umoran, oci su mi se sklapale i skoro zaspah stojeci. Nisu oni los band, ali, fakat, neke grupe nemaju tu snagu zivog nastupa. Vise sam zijevao nego bila kakav drugi osjecaj u sebi imao i jedva cekao da se koncert zavrsi. Eto, kako mi je zanimljivo bilo.
Da se nije nesto desilo sa mnom ili unutar mene? Da me nije onaj clanak poremetio? Preispitivanje? Sa partnerom zivotnim razgovaras efektivno samo dva, tri minuta dnevno? Ima li tu doza istine ili suplja prica novinarska pronalazi u eteru ovakve zrtve kao sto sam ja?
Vala od sad samo citam vremensku prognozu i rezultate engleske fudbalske lige. Navukli su me, djubrad elektronska, ko oni trac-magazini ispred kase u supermarketima. Htio ili ne, moras barem pogled da skrenes i naslove procitas. Misija je uspjesno zavrsena. Postajem dio mejnstrima :Britney Spears nalemala novog momka, Jessica Simpson bez sminke, Tiger Woods se vratio na teren i ubacio pobjednicki od prve. O golfu se ovdje raspravlja...
Naime, prijatelj moj, Kanadjanin pravi, Vancouverite rodjeni, prezimena anglosaksonskog i humora prihvatljivog, za koncert me njihov racuna. Spoon je veceras u nasem gradu. Gle, Kanadjanin, divnog li cuda zar i takvi ovdje postoje, pitam samoga sebe? Postoje, postoje cak i mene, namrgodjenog Balkanoida oscilatornih raspolozenja i visoka cela , prijateljem svojim zovu. Brz telefonski razgovor, jos brzi odgovor. Idem.
Nisam bas i neki fan doticnog banda, sve mi je te previse mlako, ali, eto, izlazak je nedeljni zasto ga ne upotpuniti. Kao pravi muzjak slavenski, ostavljam zenu kod kuce, a ja odoh u noc neonsku. Ionako nece da ide sa mnom nigdje, garant sam joj dosadan svojom svakodnevnom pricom, zna sve moje folove i provale, pa je ovo nacin da se i malo odmori od mene.
I bas ko u inat danas sam naletio na neki clanak (vazda mene gluposti internetske pronadju) koji kaze da ako si u braku 50 godina, dnevno progovoris sa supruznikom dva do tri minuta. Ko biva, sve ste vec rekli jedan drugom za te godine tako da vec znate napamet ko sta misli, a kamoli jos da pricate o necemu drugom.
I pravo se ja sad zabrinu. Em zena ne razgovara sa mnom pola minute dnevno, em me pusta na koncerete samog, em ne kontrolise kakve sve gluposti po netu valjam, em me trpi i sutke klima glavom na sve moje nervoze i nezadovoljstva. Tito dragi, sta me tek ceka za pedestogodisnjicu braka? Vostane figure Madam Tussaude i prikljucak za internet? Joj, jest' me krenulo pozitivno razmisljanje.
Evo, nas na koncertu. Samo sto poceo nije. Smirili smo par piva i zavalili se u zadnje redove sale koja vise lici na teatralnu pozornicu nego rock binu (pa bina i pozornica je jedno te isto, zar ne? Jebu te sinonimi, ha? Autor teksta samo-zakljucuje).
Ima kao i nekih predgrupa. Nikako mi ne leze. Sve je to nesto eksperimentalno, melankonlicno, sporo, otuzno. Smor zivi.
Nisam u moodu za takvo sto, treba mi sirova energije, gitaristicki napad, pulsiranje basa, prodornost vokala. Hocu PJ Harvey!
Druga po redu predgrupa je toliko otegla da sam mislio da su Spoon vec odsvirali svoje. I jos sam prijatelja svog totalno pitanjima zbunio, rekavsi u vise navrata, hajmo odavde, vidis da je koncert gotov.
Dosli su i Spoon na red, ali, ja sam vec bio gladan, umoran, oci su mi se sklapale i skoro zaspah stojeci. Nisu oni los band, ali, fakat, neke grupe nemaju tu snagu zivog nastupa. Vise sam zijevao nego bila kakav drugi osjecaj u sebi imao i jedva cekao da se koncert zavrsi. Eto, kako mi je zanimljivo bilo.
Da se nije nesto desilo sa mnom ili unutar mene? Da me nije onaj clanak poremetio? Preispitivanje? Sa partnerom zivotnim razgovaras efektivno samo dva, tri minuta dnevno? Ima li tu doza istine ili suplja prica novinarska pronalazi u eteru ovakve zrtve kao sto sam ja?
Vala od sad samo citam vremensku prognozu i rezultate engleske fudbalske lige. Navukli su me, djubrad elektronska, ko oni trac-magazini ispred kase u supermarketima. Htio ili ne, moras barem pogled da skrenes i naslove procitas. Misija je uspjesno zavrsena. Postajem dio mejnstrima :Britney Spears nalemala novog momka, Jessica Simpson bez sminke, Tiger Woods se vratio na teren i ubacio pobjednicki od prve. O golfu se ovdje raspravlja...
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Friday, 9 April 2010
Oni sto dolaze za nama
Petak se blizi kraju, vani je predivan suncan dan, lokalne planine savijaju se pod snijeznim pokrivacem sto nepozvan dodje. Malo se prohladnim cini.
Sve mi se nesto po mislima vrte stihovi legendarnih Puljezana, stihovi, sada vec nekog davnog vremena, cija je poruka aktuelnija vise nego ikada. Isli bi nesto kao ovako:"...oni sto dolaze za nama imat' ce WC-e i u WC-u televiziju, putem kucnog kompjutera sklapat ce prijateljstva. Oni sto dolaze za nama imat' ce sterilizirane osjecaje bez klica?!...".
Vizionarstvo ili jednostavno tekst sto pronalazi mjesto svoje jednog petka mjeseca proljetnog sto tek zapocinje. Mislim da znam odgovor.
Citam sinoc clanak na sarajevo-x, u vezi tehnoloskih dostignuca, modernih vidova i mreza komuniciranja (facebook, e-mail, mobilni telefon...). Elem, ljudi cesce putem istih "idu na sijelo", kafenisu, odrazavaju prijateljstvo i rodbinske veze nego face to face. Pa dobro, to je posast elektronskog doba. Sta cemo sad?
Uglavnom, istrazivanja pokazuju da vecina ljudi danas, da ne postoje ove stranice sa "drustvenim umrezavanjem" rijetko bi se culi s rodbinom/prijateljima, a kamoli veze odrzavali.
I sad pitanje meni brzinom munje hita. Da li je poplavom ovih tehnoloskih dostignuca doslo do veceg zblizavanja ili totalnog otudjenja? Da li onaj, koji je po svojoj prirodi asocijalan, ovim vidom komunikacije pronalazi sebe ili, onaj, cija je narav socijalna sama po sebi, svoj drustveni zivot samo nadogradjuje? Da li je lakse napisati nesto preko neta nego reci lice u lice? Da li su to mozda oni sterilizirani osjecaji bez klica sto u misli su mi navratile?
Kako to biva, bolje od samog clanka su komentari citaoca, koje uvijek sa sirokim osmijehom i zadovoljstvom citam. Vow populi, neukroceni duh nacije i zdrave zajebancije:" A mozes li ti komsinici stavit' u ruku preko Facebooka?". Narod se pita.
Zima se vratila, nemir je u meni, vikend zapocinje. Oni sto dolaze za nama imat ce barem priliku da odu sutra na skijanje...
Sve mi se nesto po mislima vrte stihovi legendarnih Puljezana, stihovi, sada vec nekog davnog vremena, cija je poruka aktuelnija vise nego ikada. Isli bi nesto kao ovako:"...oni sto dolaze za nama imat' ce WC-e i u WC-u televiziju, putem kucnog kompjutera sklapat ce prijateljstva. Oni sto dolaze za nama imat' ce sterilizirane osjecaje bez klica?!...".
Vizionarstvo ili jednostavno tekst sto pronalazi mjesto svoje jednog petka mjeseca proljetnog sto tek zapocinje. Mislim da znam odgovor.
Citam sinoc clanak na sarajevo-x, u vezi tehnoloskih dostignuca, modernih vidova i mreza komuniciranja (facebook, e-mail, mobilni telefon...). Elem, ljudi cesce putem istih "idu na sijelo", kafenisu, odrazavaju prijateljstvo i rodbinske veze nego face to face. Pa dobro, to je posast elektronskog doba. Sta cemo sad?
Uglavnom, istrazivanja pokazuju da vecina ljudi danas, da ne postoje ove stranice sa "drustvenim umrezavanjem" rijetko bi se culi s rodbinom/prijateljima, a kamoli veze odrzavali.
I sad pitanje meni brzinom munje hita. Da li je poplavom ovih tehnoloskih dostignuca doslo do veceg zblizavanja ili totalnog otudjenja? Da li onaj, koji je po svojoj prirodi asocijalan, ovim vidom komunikacije pronalazi sebe ili, onaj, cija je narav socijalna sama po sebi, svoj drustveni zivot samo nadogradjuje? Da li je lakse napisati nesto preko neta nego reci lice u lice? Da li su to mozda oni sterilizirani osjecaji bez klica sto u misli su mi navratile?
Kako to biva, bolje od samog clanka su komentari citaoca, koje uvijek sa sirokim osmijehom i zadovoljstvom citam. Vow populi, neukroceni duh nacije i zdrave zajebancije:" A mozes li ti komsinici stavit' u ruku preko Facebooka?". Narod se pita.
Zima se vratila, nemir je u meni, vikend zapocinje. Oni sto dolaze za nama imat ce barem priliku da odu sutra na skijanje...
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