Idoli

Odbrana i poslednji dani

1982 (Jugoton)

art-punk, new wave, post-punk

by Federico Romagnoli

Vladimir “Vlada” Divljan was born in Belgrade in 1958. He fell in love with music at the age of ten, while on holiday with his parents on the Adriatic coast, in Tučepi, Dalmatia, where he was captivated by the band that played every evening at the bar of the Hotel Jadran. Back in Belgrade, he immediately formed a group with his neighbours and childhood friends, Zdenko and Boža.

Through various tricks and schemes they got hold of their first instruments and began playing, drawing inspiration from the classic rock of Beatles e Rolling Stones. Later on they also started listening to jazz.

It's worth remembering that, unlike the Warsaw Pact countries, where rock music was often discredited and at times censored, in Tito's self-managed Yugoslavia rock was widely popular, and over the course of the the Seventies it was even encouraged by Yugoslav institutions, which channelled it through official youth centres and granted it space for expression on radio and television.

There are two reasons behind this approach. The first has to do with external image: Yugoslavia wanted to show Europe and the world its own distinctiveness, presenting itself as a land of socialism and freedom, the East of the West rather than the West of the East. The second reason is that, after the crackdown following the '68 movement, the government in Belgrade wanted to offer concessions to young people, avoid clashes and divisions, and at the same time keep tighter control over them. Those were also the last years of relative economic prosperity before the great recession of the the Eighties, with its spirals of inflation and unemployment, from which the country would never recover.

For New Year's Eve 1980, Divljan travelled abroad, between Paris and London, taking in many concerts, and in London he fell in love with the bands of the new wave, Stranglers movement in particular. New wave took hold in Belgrade shortly after, under the name novi talas. The Student Cultural Centre was its main catalyst. It was in that context that bands formed which would change the history of Yugoslav music and counterculture: Električni Orgazam, Šarlo Akrobata (from whom Ekatarina Velika and Disciplina Kičme would later emerge) and, indeed, Idoli.

Founded in March 1980, the latter were made up of Divljan (guitar and vocals), together with his inseparable childhood friend, the aforementioned Zdenko Kolar (bass), and two high school classmates, Nebojša Krstić (keyboards and vocals) and Srđan Šaper (percussion and vocals). Divljan graduated in Geology and was offered a position as a university assistant, but turned it down to devote himself entirely to music.

In the early Eighties Yugoslavia entered a phase of great creative, social and musical effervescence, fuelled by an apparent paradox. On one hand, the main cities (Zagreb, Belgrade, Sarajevo, Ljubljana) were opening up ever wider spaces for young people, who had significant resources at their disposal: concert halls, recording studios and record labels. Festivals were organised, and countless magazines and fanzines were dedicated to the counterculture.

On the other hand, though, more or less subtle forms of conformism, control and at times censorship by the authorities over customs and language persisted, within an unprecedented context of deep political uncertainty. Tito's death in May 1980 left a void in the leadership and in the direction to follow for the country's transition. This situation further spurred young people and rock bands to lash out against those barriers and push the boundaries of freedom of expression ever further.

It's in this climate that the lyrics of Idoli take shape, with Divljan as their main author. Their first single, released in 1980, included a song titled “Retko te vidjam sa djevojkama” (“I Rarely See You with Girls”). It was one of the first Yugoslav songs to openly address the subject of homosexuality, still taboo amid the patriarchal and militaristic paradigms firmly entrenched in society. Their second single, released in early 1981, featured “Maljčiki” (“Boys”, in Russian): the lyrics are written in a heavily simplified Serbo-Croatian and contain several garbled Russian words. It's a parody of Soviet socialist realism, telling the story of a factory worker who wakes at dawn to go to work. The video also pokes fun at Soviet iconography.

The song sparked a protest from the Soviet embassy, which apparently succeeded in getting its airplay restricted.

Even though Yugoslav self-management socialism was quite a different thing from the Soviet model, it's clear that the deliberate intent of Idoli, as well as of other bands, was to play with censorship, to challenge the imposition of certain imagery and rituals, and also to stage their own condition of being "out of place", to express the disillusionment of those young generations who had grown up amid the prosperity of the Seventies but were struggling to find a place in a job market held hostage by recession, in a society that seemed static and gerontocratic. It should be made clear, however, that Idoli did not display any militant anti-communism and were in favour of Yugoslav unity; indeed, they fit squarely within that strand of local rock which, without necessarily spelling it out, practised and celebrated the unity of the country against the various nationalisms.

Also in 1981 came the EP "VIS Idoli", its cover featuring Amedeo Modigliani's "Nudo sdraiato" (Reclining Nude): confirming the trend set by previous singles, it was a sensational success, selling 200,000 copies.

Idoli's music up to this point is varied and inventive, moving between the futuristic thrust of new wave and a nostalgia for music of the past, ranging from choral punk-pop to ska, from electro-acoustic ballads to rock'n'roll, with experimental touches that nonetheless take care not to compromise the catchiness of riffs and choruses.

When the band entered the studio to record their debut album, "Odbrana i poslednji dani", they no longer seemed willing to make any concessions.

The cover perfectly captures this defiant attitude: the title is rendered in an font ancient Cyrillic typeface inspired by that of the Church Slavonic Miroslav Gospel, while the background image is a detail from an icon of St. Nicholas held at the National Museum of Belgrade.

This was an unusual choice of imagery for the time, one that could be associated with conservative, anti-communist Serbian Orthodox leanings. It's worth noting, however, that the record was made at the Jugoton label in Zagreb, not at Pgp in Belgrade. What's more, Croatian critics acclaimed it immediately and have continued to do so ever since. In 2015, Rolling Stone Croatia voted it the best album ever released in Yugoslavia or in any of the nations that emerged after its dissolution — hardly the kind of accolade it would have received had it been tainted by Serbian nationalism.

Setting aside a genuine spiritual quest, which can also be read as a process of personal growth and self-awareness, the use of those symbols should be understood above all as a form of political and social critique, one that had nothing to do with the values later championed during the Milošević era. Divljan himself was keen to clarify this in a 2003 interview for the Serbian newspaper Nin: "I think the later exaggeration of national and religious sentiment was a consequence of the dogmatic positions of the previous era. A young person has to express a certain amount of cynicism toward hypocrisy, and this is one of my personal reasons why 'Odbrana i poslednji dani' had that connection to religion."

"Odbrana i poslednji dani" was released on 16 April 1982. The title, "The Defense and the Last Days" in English, is taken from the novel of the same name by Borislav Pekić, published in 1977 and still unavailable in Italian translation. The writer was at the time living in exile in London, having become persona non grata with the Yugoslav government, and the decision to openly reference his work was in keeping with the band's antagonistic stance.

For the occasion, the lineup was joined by drummer Kokan Popović, who was nonetheless given no say in the songwriting.

The album opens with "Kenozoik", Krstić's aggressive tenor riding a new-wave charge, with a verse driven by distorted guitars and a chorus propelled by piercing synthesizer lines.

It's one of the album's more conventional tracks, yet it already surprises, both for the energy with which it's performed and for the sheer number of details to be picked up on: the frequent shifts in guitar tone, the eclectic use of electronics (in the verse the keyboards mimic the typical hammering of piano in early rock'n'roll, while elsewhere they create riffs, sketch melodies in the background, or emit dissonances), the sporadic yet deafening bursts of effected percussion, and the bed of liturgical-sounding choral vocals, an element that will recur at several other points on the record.

The lyrics tell of the end of a relationship, with a metaphysical undertone that may in fact conceal the young musicians' fears for Yugoslavia's future:

You wake me at half past five for no reason,

there's no one around and we've got nowhere to go,

from what I see I'm out of breath,

all that's left is to stay where we are now.

It seems like something is taking you away,

voices tell me it's you,

I agree to look at you for the first time,

I search for a collection of propped-up schists.

Tell me, the Cenozoic isn't for you.

[…] I've drawn the red lines,

my eyes have grown used to the dark of the film,

I let everything stay still for one more instant,

I thought it was nice to be a couple.

It feels like I've always been stupid,

the voices tell me “this is the end”,

I want to stretch out like smoke curling round,

this concentric circle is very beautiful.

[…] You wake me up at half past five for no reason,

there's no one around and we've got nowhere to go,

the gentle hand of Saint Sava points the way,

the blue August sun, adolescent light.

[…] Here even early morning is scorching,

all that chatter, it's all here.

The approach to the lyrics became sophisticated and intellectual, so much so that even today some still find them impenetrable. This opening track strings together bleak glimpses of domestic life, mixed with a postmodern approach to the band members' personal passions and phrases in other languages. The references to schist (a type of metamorphic rock) and to the Cenozoic era come from Divljan, who as already mentioned holds a degree in Geology, while "this is the end" is sung in Russian ("eto konets") and "adolescent light" in Latin ("pubes lux"). Religion makes an appearance with the invocation of Saint Sava, the saint to whom the largest Orthodox church in Belgrade — and in the whole Balkan region — is dedicated.

The following "Poslednji dani" was originally meant to be titled "Maršal" ("Marshal"), an obvious reference to Tito, but the authorities vetoed it, forcing the band to change the title and cut a line ("The Marshal is my God, the Marshal knows where [I'm from]").

Paradoxically, the effect of censorship risked making the song even more hostile to communist ideals. With the reference to the Marshal removed and the one to God left intact, the lyrics took on the appearance of a religious ode, whereas it had been conceived as an existentialist manifesto with a satirical aftertaste.

The nights give me power,

the nights are my order,

they are solemn,

crucified garments.

Come, come,

I'm waiting for you, I am,

new.

My God awaits me,

at night I am my own double,

my God awaits me.

I shall surely pass,

pure and proud,

my God will wait for me,

he will wait for me, I know it.

The rhythm section is very tight, but the atmosphere is more relaxed compared to "Kenozoik": the distortions have disappeared, replaced by electroacoustic textures and gentle electronic melodies. The microphone is in the hands of Divljan, who favors a more melodic, almost singer-songwriter style.

"Moja si" is the most complex track on the album. Over its six and a half minutes it maintains an obsessive rhythm driven by drums and electronic bass, with intermittent hisses running through it from start to finish and guitars breaking in with jarring, cacophonous riffs riffs. The more linear vocal part is handled by Divljan, while the passages halfway between operatic tones and Orthodox chant are the domain of Šaper. The lyrics are generally interpreted as an explicit reference to transsexuality and transgender identity. The song nonetheless remains on a deliberately hermetic and allusive level, with ambiguous terms (the hyacinth is not just a flower, but also Apollo's mythological lover) and sudden shifts in scenario and subject (he, she, I). The liturgical element, besides showing up in the vocal style, also appears in the verses at the end of the track, which cite elements of the Orthodox mass (in the translation below, from "Christ is risen..." onward). Ultimately, on a symbolic level the theme of gender change is not far removed from that of resurrection, as the supreme stage of transition and self-awareness.

He stands alone on his horse,

banners rise high above,

everyone bids him farewell,

and watches him for a long, long time.

He becomes ever more aware

that he has remained

his own one true chance,

for too long he has prayed

for the real noon he longed for.

The guardian angel comes by night

and lifts him with a silent wing,

dwelling in black feathers,

and every bird's head is his.

"You're mine, you're mine",

and he looks at himself,

"you're mine, you're mine",

and he looks at himself as he dresses,

he would like to be that girl,

he would like others to love him,

to try to change himself.

And everything that happens matters

and the other hands say many things,

youth is very warm and deceitful,

[like] promises of lunatic shores.

There's no reason to repent,

everyone was like hard-boiled eggs with him,

under his sign everyone has [been] "us" at some time.

May celestial fortitude shine upon him,

may all the music play up there,

may all the skies be here now.

The mandolins die for the moon,

mothers and fathers exchange places,

"you're mine, you're mine",

and the night in the woods,

"you're mine, you're mine",

and he has seen the night in the woods.

He watches himself as he is abducted.

[…] In the bathroom he takes advice,

in the mirror he finds messages,

from the shower bleeding fevers

of scented fumes lash him.

There are no more marks on his body,

his skin looks like a hyacinth,

now anointed with rose oil,

he covers his head with red hair.

All the music… you are mine.

Christ rises from the dead,

defeats death with death

and gives life back to those who are buried.

[…] Save me, o sweet comforter,

peace be with you, hallelujah.

Written and sung by Šaper alone, “Senke su drugacije” is a hybrid of folk and punk heavily influenced by Balkan tradition, complete with a horn section and percussion, while “Nemo” falls into new wave territory: the lyrics are sung mainly by Divljan, while Šaper contributes some backing vocals and a series of abstract screams, which accompany the frantic rhythm, synthesizer solos and dissonances, creating one of the most chaotic yet vital moments on the record.

With its programmed rhythms and toy-keyboard sounds, “Rusija” is perhaps the most electronic track of the bunch. A ballad barely whispered by Divljan, with a melody deeply rooted in Slavic folk, it tells the story of a couple's everyday life against the grey backdrop of real socialism, weaving in fragments from the band members' own lives (Krstić lived on Bakić Street, in the working-class Belgrade neighbourhood of Voždovac; Šaper was reading the Russian writer Aleksandr Fadeyev). What emerges is the figure of a strong woman, the kind envisioned by communist ideology.

Bakić Street has already fallen asleep,

the shadows are hiding,

the lights are thickening.

Our silent room

has just woken up,

our silent room was gleaming.

I was still studying,

she was working,

at night I would read her Aleksandr Fadeyev.

Sometimes she was amazed by my songs,

she wouldn't let me worry.

The new year brought us nothing,

as if it had lost its way

or was mocking us.

We searched the sky

for the light of Vostok.

She had hands stronger than mine.

She wouldn't let me dominate her,

she wouldn't let me dominate her.

"Igrale se delije" is a kind of futuristic rockabilly, with compressed drums, distorted bass up front and metallic noises, over which Šaper's sobbing voice sings lyrics that parody a Serbian folk song of the same name, written in 1919 by poet and man of letters Milorad Petrović.

In my local community tonight there's dancing

and everyone will come

And when the dancing starts, will I come closer to you?

and when the dancing starts, I'll ask you:

tell me, do you want to dance with me?

The kids were dancing

in the middle of the Serbian countryside,

step by step, one kolo after another,

could be heard as far as Istanbul.

But what do I do if we start dancing?

Šaper later claimed that the song linked the country's past and future: on one side, the events organized by kids in the heart of Yugoslav socialism (the local community, in Serbo-Croatian mesna zajednica, was the smallest administrative unit, usually a small neighborhood in cities or a village in the countryside), on the other, the kolo, a traditional local dance, symbolizing the divisive nationalism of the late Eighties.

“Odbrana” is a love song with fairly conventional lyrics, but the music is as inventive as ever, in a strange hybrid of synth-pop (the melody driven by keyboards) and folk rock (the strumming of the acoustic guitar propelling the rhythm). Šaper sings it with a solemn air, countered by the backing vocals of Bebi Dol, well-known Serbian pop singer. The track also features session musician and multi-instrumentalist Goran Vejvoda on synthesizer.

“Glavna ptica (Skrati svoj dugački jezik)” is an avant-rock track branded by Divljan's guitar, indulging in atonal, abrasive improvisations. Krstić sings in a depressed tone, one step away from gothic rock.

Serving as a counterweight is an intimate ballad for piano and voice, "Hajde, sanjaj me, sanjaj", recorded by Divljan alone, which seems to want to close the album with a caress, soothing the chaos of the preceding tracks, though not without a few passages where the melody seems to waver and slip out of time.

The album had a much smaller impact than the band's previous releases, but it should be noted that, due to its controversial nature, it received no promotion whatsoever: no video was distributed [note], radio support was scarce, and the initial pressing ran to just 50,000 copies (a second edition would have to wait until the the Nineties, when a further 40,000 CD copies were distributed).

Still, anyone who heard it was struck by it, and among industry insiders the acclaim was almost immediate, aside from a few polemical articles that, as Divljan recalled, branded it “incense-scented rock”.

In 1982, the Belgrade magazine "Rock" named it the second-best album of the year, behind "Filigranski pločnici" by Croatian band Azra (proof of just how interconnected that scene was, and how averse to separatism). Yet as early as 1985 it had been hailed by the magazine "Džuboks" as the greatest Yugoslav album of all time, a ranking confirmed in 1998 by the book "Yu 100", written by Serbian journalists Duško Antonić and Danilo Štrbac. Finally, in 2015, came the aforementioned consecration by Rolling Stone Croatia.

In 1984, following an argument after a concert in Ljubljana, Idoli broke up. The details are still debated today and have never been fully clarified. What is certain is that the friction was mainly between Divljan on one side and Šaper and Krstić on the other. Divljan, however, would always remain on good terms with Kolar.

The four members' fates diverged greatly. Kolar founded the blues rock band Zona B; Šaper went on to run a communications agency and became one of the most prominent entrepreneurs in Serbia; Krstić moved into politics, first as an advisor to president Boris Tadić (democratic-liberal), then under Aleksandar Vučić (conservative-nationalist), taking increasingly conservative and provocative stances: he has in the past been banned from Twitter and is frequently called out for his homophobic and aggressive remarks toward minorities; Divljan, on the other hand, always stood out for his calm, progressive approach. His solo career, launched in 1988, spans nine albums, two of which are live recordings. He sadly passed away in March 2015, at the age of 57, due to appendix cancer.

[Note] Three videos have actually been attached to this article, though they are not period promotional clips. The first two belong to a series of videos produced by Croatia Records dedicated to the album to mark its fortieth anniversary, published in 2022. The third dates back to 1982 and was recorded for the TV programme "Petkom u 22" ("Fridays at 22"): it has, however, never been broadcast again since and is today considered a rarity. It is thought to have been uploaded online by someone with access to television archives, but the quality leaves much to be desired: it would deserve a proper restoration.

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30/07/2023

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Tracklist

1. Keнoзoик / Kenozoik
2. Пoслeдњи дaни / Poslednji dani
3. Мoja си / Moja si
4. Ceнкe cy дpyгaчиje / Senke su drugačije
5. Heмo / Nemo
6. Heбecкa тeмa / Nebeska tema
7. Pycиja / Rusija
8. Игpaлe ce дeлиje / Igrale se delije
9. Jeдинa (Yзypликзypли) / Jedina (Uzurlikzurli)
10. Oдбpaнa / Odbrana
11. Гдe cи caд цицa-мaцo / Gdje si sad cica-maco
12. Глaвнa птицa (Cкpaти cвoj дyгaчки jeзик) / Glavna ptica (Skrati svoj dugački jezik)
13. Хajдe, caњaj мe, caњaj / Hajde, sanjaj me, sanjaj