Good heavens above it’s Christmas Eve! How on Earth did that happen?! Where have I been?! Oh yes – in a Christian Orthodox country that doesn’t celebrate anything until January 7th. So this is a little weird. Consequently I’ve not heard one carol, not one rendition of Fairy Tale in New York and I’ve not had a mince-pie. The latter I’m eternally thankful for. Horrible things. Every year I was expected to try both those and Brussels sprouts, in case I liked it. For me the two go hand in hand with Beelzebub.
I digress. Basically it doesn’t feel like Christmas. It hasn’t felt like Christmas for a number of years now. I can’t remember the last time I hung a bauble. I’ve been thinking that the only chance I’ve got in getting that festive spirit back is when I have a family of my own. Since I don’t actually want one this could prove something of a problem. I’ll just borrow yours.
In spite of not actually cheering in the baby Jesus, employing drunk, crap Santas in shopping malls, and drugging girls with mistletoe, Serbians (and Belgrade in particular) will party on regardless. The night-life here has been wild. Locals are super friendly, interested in where you’re from, fiercely proud and programmed to have a good time. My only brush with a seedier side has been when a taxi driver chased me swinging a bike chain after I refused to pay his extortionate fare. I’ve never been to another country where the taxis will try to rip you off as much as they do here. Watch out for it.
After one such night out, I find myself in the underbelly of a “Kafana”, a sort of bistro that serves food and booze, often with live music. This one is more like a speak-easy, with us banging on the door for an age to be allowed in. It’s 4 am and it’s dead. Dead except for a Casio Keyboard player and a tall broad with fake boobs and more make-up than a gay Dracula. The keyboard dude is playing like he’s pressed that ‘demonstration’ button all those instruments have. You know the one where you used to kid-on that it was you playing that pre-recorded noise? She is singing…no that’s the wrong verb…she’s wailing some ear-bleeding vocals that even if you spoke the language you wouldn’t understand. Welcome, dear readers, to Turbo Folk.
I’m struggling to describe this “music”, but, with the utmost respect to Serbians, it is gut-wrenchingly awful. There doesn’t appear to be a tune, to the point of I wonder if once the song is done it can never be repeated the same way. It’s got to be up there with Reggaeton and Justin Bieber in unashamedly murdering your ears. It’s like listening to a Mosque’s call to prayer played over horrible tin-can techno; and they love it.
Half an hour later and the place is jumping. Old boys sway in the corner, kids are running around. Groups huddle together and attempt to sing along. Scores of Cows have died to provide black leather jackets. It is up there with the most bizarre night life experience I’ve ever had, but when all is said and done; remarkably enjoyable. They’re an affable bunch these Serbs; even those in the Mafia.
I will do my best to stay out of trouble over the next few days; but I can’t promise anything. In the meantime, I wish you all peace, love, goodwill and shots of Rakija, Ouzo, Palinka, Tequila and Babycham. Merry Christmas everyone.
Chain wielding taxi drivers, underground Serbian Turbo Folk sing-a-longs and Belgrade at Christmas
Good heavens above it’s Christmas Eve! How on Earth did that happen?! Where have I been?! Oh yes – in a Christian Orthodox country that doesn’t celebrate anything until January 7th. So this is a little weird. Consequently I’ve not heard one carol, not one rendition of Fairy Tale in New York and I’ve not had a mince-pie. The latter I’m eternally thankful for. Horrible things. Every year I was expected to try both those and Brussels sprouts, in case I liked it. For me the two go hand in hand with Beelzebub.
I digress. Basically it doesn’t feel like Christmas. It hasn’t felt like Christmas for a number of years now. I can’t remember the last time I hung a bauble. I’ve been thinking that the only chance I’ve got in getting that festive spirit back is when I have a family of my own. Since I don’t actually want one this could prove something of a problem. I’ll just borrow yours.
In spite of not actually cheering in the baby Jesus, employing drunk, crap Santas in shopping malls, and drugging girls with mistletoe, Serbians (and Belgrade in particular) will party on regardless. The night-life here has been wild. Locals are super friendly, interested in where you’re from, fiercely proud and programmed to have a good time. My only brush with a seedier side has been when a taxi driver chased me swinging a bike chain after I refused to pay his extortionate fare. I’ve never been to another country where the taxis will try to rip you off as much as they do here. Watch out for it.
After one such night out, I find myself in the underbelly of a “Kafana”, a sort of bistro that serves food and booze, often with live music. This one is more like a speak-easy, with us banging on the door for an age to be allowed in. It’s 4 am and it’s dead. Dead except for a Casio Keyboard player and a tall broad with fake boobs and more make-up than a gay Dracula. The keyboard dude is playing like he’s pressed that ‘demonstration’ button all those instruments have. You know the one where you used to kid-on that it was you playing that pre-recorded noise? She is singing…no that’s the wrong verb…she’s wailing some ear-bleeding vocals that even if you spoke the language you wouldn’t understand. Welcome, dear readers, to Turbo Folk.
I’m struggling to describe this “music”, but, with the utmost respect to Serbians, it is gut-wrenchingly awful. There doesn’t appear to be a tune, to the point of I wonder if once the song is done it can never be repeated the same way. It’s got to be up there with Reggaeton and Justin Bieber in unashamedly murdering your ears. It’s like listening to a Mosque’s call to prayer played over horrible tin-can techno; and they love it.
Half an hour later and the place is jumping. Old boys sway in the corner, kids are running around. Groups huddle together and attempt to sing along. Scores of Cows have died to provide black leather jackets. It is up there with the most bizarre night life experience I’ve ever had, but when all is said and done; remarkably enjoyable. They’re an affable bunch these Serbs; even those in the Mafia.
I will do my best to stay out of trouble over the next few days; but I can’t promise anything. In the meantime, I wish you all peace, love, goodwill and shots of Rakija, Ouzo, Palinka, Tequila and Babycham. Merry Christmas everyone.