A Trip To Zenica

After enduring twelve months of national military service, Branko returned home in autumn of 1990, wondering what to do next. The other two members of his hardcore punk outfit SWS went to serve the homeland at the same time he came back from paying his dues. He reasoned that just because the band was put on hold for another year, it didn't mean he couldn't do the other stuff, like organising the concerts. All he needed were the bands worth organising concerts for.

Luckily for Branko, his mate Dino had already formed one. The three-piece named themselves No Party. The enthusiastic bunch practiced intensively in their mate grandfather’s miniature garden shed. "Was this construction built for midgets?", moaned Dino, all 6’4” of him, realising he’ll have to practice with a bent neck.  Branko was pleasantly surprised with stuff he heard. It was fast, loud, and sporadically melodic. Most of the material played was their own. "We’re just not good enough to play anybody else’s songs", laughed Tiny the bass player, not being far from truth. Dino and Tiny knew they weren’t that great on the guitars despite eagerness to learn, but Roko was sixteen-year old beast on the drums that kept them glued together. 

On the other side of town, another band loomed on the horizon, Green Silence. They were a duo, Alan and Tihomir, law students in their early twenties, who because of loophole in the system managed to postpone military service till after completion of studies. Finding it impossible to recruit a drummer who would be on their intellectual and artistic wavelength, they opted instead for “Roland 626” drum machine, which Tihomir’s relative brought over from Germany. The machine was a thing of beauty (as told by chosen few who were allowed anywhere near it), and clever boys spent hours exploiting its capabilities. Their musicianship was already advanced, daring to cover number of songs by their favourite alternative bands, on top of the original material, sung in grammatically impeccable English. Branko was so impressed, he told them they were good enough to play anywhere, any town or country. They reminded him of Gang of Four gone Big Black. “You need to get your lazy arses out of Alan’s bedroom and move into proper rehearsal room”, he advised them decidedly. “This needs to be played loud. People need to hear this. I’ll see if you can share practice space with No Party lot.", said Branko, upgrading garden shed into proper rehearsal room in that one sentence. 

He already began envisioning  “BL Rock Invasion - part 2”. The original event took place in the Summer of 1988, when five vivacious bands from Banja Luka invaded the town of Doboj, a couple hours of gnarled third-class train ride away. Anyone who was anyone at the post-punk BL scene went along, which meant around twenty people. Branko organized the whole trip, managing for best part to keep things loosely together, before predictably, chaotic nature of such testosterone fuelled event duly prevailed, culminating in mass stage invasion at the end of evening, as Branko’s own band, SWS, played their last song “Fuck the future!”

 It became a legendary tale, repeatedly evoked by those who witnessed it. Someone’s leg got stuck inside a kick drum. A Fender bass guitar was tested against some unfortunate sod's back. A whole sink was somehow pulled out of the gentlemen’s toilet. And then People’s Militia joined the party and deported “BL Rock Invasion” back to Banja Luka the following morning. This time around, Branko contacted his old fanzine penpal Dule in Zenica, and Dule happily took on setting up the affair.

So, one Saturday in April of 1991, a horde of adrenaline fuelled youth boarded Bosna Ekspres train to Zenica, carrying shabby eastern European instruments and unhealthy amounts of alcohol. Only around half of lively excursion were actual band members; rest of the posse were mates who couldn’t resist temptation of intoxicated jolly outing. Amazingly, No Party had two genuine fans, Roko’s mates, Sipka and Bubanj, who came along to few rehearsals, and were two of dozen or so people witnessing band’s first ever gig, at City Library Hall in February that year. Lads even made DIY t-shirts, with No Party sprayed on in graffiti style. For this trip they were joined by mate of theirs, Mirko the Silly Bollocks, another troubled and enthusiastic young teenage soul. Mirko's claim to fame was that he proclaimed himself an alcoholic at the age of sixteen. He also liked to randomly recite poetry, probably influenced by Jim Morrison.

Some of the crew were merry even before train left Banja Luka  and seldom anyone remained sober throughout the journey. Sid was one of the worst, downing copious amounts of white wine in a very short space of time. “We’re fucked, he’s entering his ‘Iggy Pop phase’” cried Branko, realising Sid have removed his denim jacket and shirt and was sitting there rather unsociably, all wild stare, long hair and hairy chest. Never a good sign. “Is that him growling at me?” asked Mirko the Silly Bollocks, still complete novice when it came to Sid’s drunken outbursts. "Who fucking knows? Fucking horse. Last time he was like this he smashed the bottle against someone's front door", answered Branko, trying to wrestle the bottle out of Sid's hands. 

 

As soon as unruly mob tumbled out of the train at Zenica station, bare-chested Sid encountered a litter bin attached to a nearby pole, attempting to dismantle it with impeccably nihilistic dedication. Thankfully, Branko was one of those not yet completely under the influence, swiftly preventing Sid from doing something they all might regret later. "You better keep an eye on him, or he'll get us in trouble. Don't let that drunken horse touch anything", he instructed Dino. Others shouted and swore and spat drunken gibberish, staggering about aimlessly, holding onto nearly empty wine bottles.

 Dule the gig organiser, the one-man welcome committee, seemed perplexed by the scenery, standing aside motionless in his all black outfit and shades, hands buried deep in his pockets. Branko somehow managed to get everyone on the move. Dule slowly led the pack towards the venue. Some of the gang took liberty to urinate in nearby bushes.

- Forgive them mate, they don’t know what they’re doing, drunken morons. -  Branko felt obliged to apologize to their host, as the pack noisily crossed the bridge over river Bosna, the town basking in the early evening sunshine

- Mate, not sure what’s happening... my head is still buzzing from joint I smoked earlier...it’s all bit hazy to me - admitted Dule as if disengaging from responsibility.

A respectable number of hopefuls turned up to see what these wannabes from Banja Luka had to offer. Green Silence made an intelligent decision to play first. They appeared to be the only ones taking matters seriously, keen to represent their hometown in best possible light. They were the only two guys not to drink at all during the day. "The plan’s simple, we’ll get smashed afterwards", explained Alan. They walked on the stage looking like two library apprentices, switched on their precious Roland 626 drum machine (which they've never let out of their sight the whole day), plugged in their guitars and for next half an hour stormed their set with envying confidence, mixing thumping beats with cleverly odd bass lines and crunchy guitar parts, even treating the willing crowd with a cover version of “Universal Emptiness” by The Swans at the conclusion of stunning performance. Green Silence were cheered off stage with hearty applause and loud vocal approval. Hopefuls had their hopes raised.

Next up were “Highway 4”, Stooges and Ramones influenced bunch of sixteen-year olds, making their very first public appearance. It was obvious to everyone after couple of bars being played that these guys were not Green Silence. The unfortunate lads were cruelly ambushed by the occasion, trying in vain to recall song parts that disappeared from their memory as the booze flew in earlier that day, sometimes playing completely different song to each other, shouting and gesturing and getting nowhere in that maze of self-inflicted teenage confusion. Gianni the singer, who mumbled his way through the set, long curly hair obscuring his face in Joey Ramone fashion, suddenly announced: “AND NOW!! JUST THE DRUM!!!”, turning with drunken theatrics towards their drummer Izzy, losing balance and dropping the microphone in the process. 

Izzo, who at fourteen was the youngest member, appeared to have forgotten all about practicing for his moment in the spotlight. Instead of rolling into his ten seconds of fame, he obediently placed his drumsticks aside, as if taking a break, looking innocently at his older brother Gianni,  awaiting further instructions. “No, no, your solo! YOUR SOLO!” shouted Gianni, gesturing rhythmically, before realising he needed to pick the microphone off the floor, as the feedback was causing additional discomfort to an already disturbed audience. Young Izzy who, to his credit, didn’t need a third invitation, embarked on his solo sequence, before others disjoined him in what was shambolic performance by bunch of kids not ready to leave their rehearsal room yet. There were laughs and jeers from the crowd. “You need to practice harder, hairdos! ” heckled someone. “My girlfriend needs an ambulance after this!” shouted different voice. Some began imitating sound of a siren. 

No Party were the night’s headliners and although they practiced long and hard for their very first gig outside Banja Luka (and their third in total), that evening they made a series of beginner’s mistakes, such as getting pissed long before the stage time, and perhaps more disastrously, forgetting to tune their instruments. Zenica crowd was treated to a slap fest of cacophony and disharmonic torture, which was tolerated at first, mainly beacuse of Roko's fantastic drumming. Sipka and Bubanj, standing in the front row, t-shirts and all, gave their best to show support, but as the band onstage kept on falling from grace, few annoyed punters began engaging them in conversation, asking how can they possibly endorse this crap. "The name suits you well!", somebody in the audience remarked between the songs. Tihomir came over to the front, yelling: "You need to tune up! You guys are out of tune!"  Not having a courage, or a clue how to tune their guitars under pressure on the stage, the band continued playing, with an ill thought cover version of Joy Division’s “New dawn Fades” coming next on the playlist. Dino figured that instead of playing solo on the guitar, they'd be better off if he tries to hum the melody over the microphone.  A voice from the crowd cried loudly: “Stop massacring Joy Division! Is anything sacred anymore?” Then Dule the organiser came over and unplugged the amplifiers. Perhaps he was big Joy Division fan too. Roko kept on drumming for a while, before eventually stopping. Some guy in the crowd came through and tried to strum Dino's guitar and Dino kept pointing to switched off amplifier, still trying to sing the guitar solo over the microphone. Jeers from the crowd intensified. Roko walked off the stage, followed by Dino. Tiny the bass player  felt obliged to mutter few goodbyes to an unhappy crowd: “I’m sorry...the gig...THIS GIG...had been TERMINATED  We ARE SOrry. ZENICA, WE LOVE YOU!”

    “We love your mums, amateurs!” shouted that voice with a girlfriend, who might have needed ambulance for real this time around. No Party left the stage embarrassed and deflated, arguing whose fault it was. Jolly outing has turned into a complete fiasco. Sipka and Bubanj have taken their shirts off, looking lost and betrayed. Branko had already gathered rest of the crew together. “We need to leave, right now!” he urged, pointing towards exit door at the back. “There are some angry people out there, doubt they mean well! They think we are taking piss out of them. And I’ve overheard Convicts are gathering in the area. Looks like news about you lot pissing in the bushes had spread.”

“What convicts? Convicts from Zenica prison?” cried bewildered Mirko the Silly Bollocks, already imagining with horror one of those nasty fuckers abusing him.

“What? No, not real prisoners, you horse. A football firm!”

        They all sobered up solidly after that announcement, hastily gathered their gear and left without saying goodbye, pacing along poorly lit streets of Zenica, nervy and apprehensive. “I think someone’s running after us!” warned loudly some frightened voice, and mighty “BL Rock Invasion - part 2” did a collective runner. The idea of local football hooligans catching up with them didn’t bode well with any of the crew. Frightened lads jogged for what seemed to be an entirety, until finally reaching the station, just as some train was pulling in. “That’s our train!” shouted Branko, “JUMP IN!” he ordered, making sure no one was left behind.

Journey back home was spent sobering up, snoozing and gathering the impressions.

“I don’t think they’ll invite us again anytime soon” Dino tried to see a funny side, relieved the evening didn’t end in the mass brawl. “We were utter shit, u picku materinu!”, he concluded despondently, still angry at himself.

“I’m beginning to think that Branko invented story about angry mob.” Sid, partially sobered up, decided to share his doubts.

“No way! Where did you get that from?”

“Did you actually see anybody chasing us?” - smirked Sid.

“Well, I didn’t. I was just running like mental, not daring to look back. Ne okreci se sine. Why would Branko do that?” - wondered Dino.

“To make sure we board this train. I think this is the last one to Banja Luka.”

“Well, I never…cunning fellow, isn’t he?” smiled Dino. "And as for you, I'm glad to see that alcohol still hasn't completely destroyed your brain cells, detective."

“Don't you worry about my brain cells, better concentrate on practising your tuning.”, wisely suggested Sid, his jacket fully zipped, feeling chilly.

“Yeah, embarassing, I know. How much does guitar tuner cost?”, wondered Dino, as the train pulled into Doboj train station.