The first I heard of Crvena Jabuka was from a Bosnian girl in a refugee camp in Croatia. ‘Red Apple?’ The teenager explained that music groups from former Yugoslavia often had strange names. As they do all over the world… She wrote out the words of one of the band’s songs, Zovu nas ulice – the streets are calling us. I tried to learn them. The tune was a catchy little earworm.
An uspomena… it was among the tracks on the Crvena Jabuka album she taped for me. I took the cassette back to Ireland. Played it, treasured it. When I should’ve been concentrating on my studies, I was decoding those handwritten verses and chorus. Their meaning wasn’t too deep, a typical laddish response to spurned love: ‘idemo na-napolje’ – ‘we’re going out’. Sugary eighties pop with a Balkan twist. Yet they taunted me with questions. Why had I returned to Dublin after that summer volunteering with kids who’d fled a war that still raged through their country? Maybe it was just guilt, but I knew I couldn’t forget. In college, I raised funds and awareness for Bosnia, roping my friends into a range of madcap schemes. They thought I was crazy.
Probably they were right. Without doubt, I fell beyond redemption when I met another fan of Crvena Jabuka. It was a pity he was tone-deaf but he ‘sang’ their hits in his own sonorous way. And, while far from perfect pitch, the lines were full of emotion. ‘Kad sat zazovni…’ Just over a year later, I found myself under that bell-tower by Begova džamija – the mosque at the heart of Baščaršija, Sarajevo’s Ottoman bazaar. The war had finally ended. The city gleamed in July sun, harrowed yet glorious. Or so it seemed to a dazzled visitor. I couldn’t comprehend it. Perhaps I was too much in awe, in love, blinded by someone who’d led me to the water that, myth says, draws you eternally back to this enigmatic place. The temperature was close to forty degrees Celsius. I was thirsty.
Whispers… sensuous, bewitching. They get drowned in our mundane interactions. Acrimonious yells stifle them. Sometimes we need reminders. My crooner’s birthday. The clock has chimed through times good and bad, twenty years have disappeared since I was serenaded with an off-key rendition of Crvena Jabuka. By chance, on Twitter, we hear they’re coming to Dublin. Hmm… two tickets to the gig might be a better present than the annual sweatshirt. It turns out to be the Best. Gift. Ever. Even if I’m not sure that he deserves it. Plus there’s a new movie about Kurt Cobain that I’d prefer to see on one of our rare nights out.
I’m still threatening to ‘go to Nirvana’ – more my genre and generation – on the evening of 14 April. The cinema isn’t far from the concert venue. Should we diverge? ‘Oh well, whatever, never mind’… the smell of youthful spirit wafts through the air. It’s decadent bliss to swan round Temple Bar at 7p.m. on a Tuesday. Usual routine at this hour would be making dinner and checking the kids’ homework. This is a welcome escape! And it’s supposed to be a double celebration – our wedding anniversary is less than a week away.
Nostalgia guides us to an Italian restaurant called ‘La Gondola’. Venice in the springtime… our honeymoon. Before we took the ‘smugglers’ ship’ from Ancona to Split on our way back to Sarajevo. After the meal, a charming Polish waitress asks us where we we’re from and tells us she recently wrote an essay about Bosnia, Serbia and Croatia in the 1990s. It was part of her course in International Studies at an Irish university. Wars slip into history, become assignment topics. This accomplished young woman is about the age I was when I first went to the Balkans.
Yikes! Now I’m wondering about the wisdom of my mini-dress. Wondering why I’m heading to an ex-Yugo rock revival. No, I’m off to Nirvana again! Let him have his mid-life bromance with his diaspora buddies. Dilemmas on the Ha’penny Bridge. Still, I end up at The Academy and my arguments prove purely academic. Idemo… into this den of iniquity! We spot some people we know, Bosnian friends from years ago. Though there’s not much time to catch up for, once the gig begins, it’s too loud to talk. To be honest, I’m more in the mood for music than for banter. So a medley of 1980s gold, from a country that no longer exists, sounds oddly appealing. Especially when it’s belted out with such gusto by a band whose average age must be twice that of One Direction.
The audience – which appears to be 99.99% Balkan – sings along. The birthday boy knows all the lyrics verbatim. Quite a feat! I’ll forgive his lack of melody. Anyhow, this is no place for cultural snobbery… it’s for getting up and dancing. Even the two of us, with our four left feet, shed our inhibitions. The atmosphere gives us rhythm, hides our clumsiness. As Crvena Jabuka energise the crowd, jazzing up old favourites. They certainly have a flair for live performance.
Then they play our special song. From the opening twang, it holds something beyond words which, so often of late, have failed us. Memories, significance… the feelings we feared we’d lost are re-released. The critics may label it cheesy, dated, Eastern European. Translation robs it of context, it doesn’t make much sense. But it flows, like that legendary water in Sarajevo. It brings us back to who, if not where, we used to be. Until the streets are calling us… the long road home, perhaps the tentative steps of a new start. Yes, music can fill the gashes that scar our maps and hearts. It can’t heal every wound, but its notes might be a balm. The sound of what we share, our common chords. ‘Sa tvojih usana…’ i mojih.
Many thanks/hvala puno Vox PROmotions for organising the Crvena Jabuka concert: https://t.co/ksvktgjBoj
And ‘that song’ from yesteryear – Sa tvojih usana/From your lips: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrzG6FaIHdQ
This post was published in the Bosnian weekly, Novo Vrijeme, on 30/4/15: http://novovrijeme.ba/bosnian-music-red-apple-rock/