Author: Sandi Sadar Šoba
Location: Kino Šiška, Ljubljana, Slovenia
Concert date: 03.12.2013
Attendance: 1,000 – 1,200
Ticket price: 14 €
How good is a musician once you strip away the cosmetics of effects, swap the screaming distortion for the resonant wooden body of an acoustic guitar, sit them down in front of a mic and leave them with nothing but their own vocal cords and well-drilled fingers to serve up the distilled form of their music? There are few such aces I’ve managed to listen to for longer than a couple of minutes lately, because posers and windbags are never in short supply. And while acoustic music as a pure form doesn’t hog the main radio airwaves worldwide, in Slovenia – after an initial borrowing, a re-creation of the established and proven format of the greats – a show got its own deeply rooted format, one that has been betting on acoustics and unspoiled sonic honesty for a full twenty years now. Maybe changes on this side of the Alps come slowly and barely noticeably, and even more so inside the national media pride, that fortress of linguistic and musical above-standardness, the building next to the boy with the whistle, but one thing stays totally unchanged – if it ain’t broke, don’t change it by an inch! And it’s precisely by that imperative that »your favorite DJ Jure« turned a full twenty years of his radio show this year. A show that outgrew the Radio Študent format, dropped anchor fifteen years ago at Val 202, served up more than 200 episodes and countless guests, sneaked out of the intimacy of the radio studio onto big stages a few times, and so made the statement that Izštekani is something more in our corner of the world. I’m unlucky in that my memory doesn’t fade quickly, and I had my first aversion to a show that borrowed far too literally the format of a very well-known, much-watched show, the one that marked the MTV generation with unforgettable outpourings of emotion and sensuality from musicians like Eric Clapton, then Nirvana, Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam, Neil Young, Sting, and I could go on. By my standards back then, Slovenia was damn too small for something like Izštekani to keep the train rolling indefinitely, but it seems I miscounted. We’ve got plenty of good musicians – what good, outstanding ones – enough that Jure Longyka managed to lure enough guests into the bosom of his acoustic universe for more than 200 episodes. After the first unplugging way back in 1993 with Sokoli and the indestructible Perot came a small sea of names from the home scene, like my beloved Demolition Group, Miladojka Youneed, Niet, the recently beautifully stripped-down and reshaped Hexenbrutal, and between one pole and the other stretches a long evolutionary timeline of quality and subversiveness in a uniquely provocative, productive way. It wasn’t only native representatives of the avant-garde, either – Izštekani also hosted some foreign treats, and some guests came back several times (thanks to proven quality). The announcement that the round 20th jubilee would be immortalized with a full-evening spectacle at Ljubljana’s Kino Šiška was truly intriguing: eleven juicy names of the Slovenian pop scene, backed by a twenty-piece orchestra of the RTV Slovenija Symphony, were to perform twenty songs in the manner of total unpluggedness, disconnection, shed sonic ballast, everything out in the open and played by ear! It was an invitation that a mass of people like that couldn’t ignore, so the chapel of Slovenian gigging was packed to the last corner, and the crowd under the stage waited for its dose of perfection.
After a slightly worn-out overture of live-played jingles – heard way too many times that evening – on the lips of »Your favorite DJ Jure«, the father and soul of the show, slightly grayed but no less alternative-minded Jure Longyka, finally beat the technical gremlin after a few introductions into a muted mic, and the unintended slip immediately became a good joke, a great gag that tied in with the very name of the show. The evening’s MC, in his epic storytelling style, kicked off the tale of the birth, metamorphoses and transformations of the show itself, which shaped and molded the radio crew, the musicians in the studio and the listeners behind their receivers. One of the bigger supernova phenomena, which started fading badly after the millennium, is undoubtedly Siddharta. Precisely by unplugging, by distancing themselves from their watered-down and production-overinflated sound – in which, after the first eruptions of creativity and avant-garde allure, there’s been precious little essence lately (at least after the album Petrolej, if not already after Saga, you can spot a complete drain of the band’s creative charge) – they started returning to their well-known form. Backed by the twenty-piece RTV Symphony orchestra under Patrik Greblo’s baton, the Ljubljana quintet heads for Nord in search of the true quintessence. Klinik sounds fresh and sincere without faking it, and Primož, Jani and Tomi, strapped with acoustic gear, warm up to the temperature of a confident start with nothing to complain about, to the sound of classical piano and Tomaž’s touch on the black and white keys, plus Boštjan’s potent drumming. Tomi M. sounds more mature and fuller, and the rest of the soldiery don’t sound as inflated and fake as, say, at their failed spectacle in Stožice. A bit of grounding was needed before real synergistic currents began flowing between the five separate parts, before synapses and bridges of creative sparks were woven again across the interpersonal chasms – and part of that is possible thanks to the megalomaniacal Izštekani project. For the tenth anniversary of their successful show at Bežigrajski stadion, Siddharta released a double CD and DVD, and part of that big sonic patchwork, that sound collage that improved the band’s image, is also the touch of the exceptional musicians of the RTV Slovenija orchestra. String accents on Klinik, and even more so the striking new note of the latest great single Novi svet (Keaziree). Tomi M. came back once more with his lyrical demons of creativity, and after the new division of the world he wrote verses that, with the shattering ring of Platina, fill the vaults of the Cathedral to the brim and in a way you can believe again, more than the half-truths of a few years back: »The new world is burning / Silence / More and more people carry their dreams into the fire / The new world is burning / and again we’re afraid / The new world is burning / Silence / Maybe that’s the reason I fly off in the smoke? / Maybe that’s the reason / I’m reborn? / Maybe that’s the reason / to tear it all down and live!«. A striking intro, followed by a quick changeover, and before the arrival of the show’s living monument, Mr. Lovšin in person, came a sincere birthday greeting and a hall-wide chorus for the celebrants – Siddharta keyboardist Tomaž and symphony oboist Maja – and for Izštekani it was enough that we down under the stage breathed and felt a continuation that unfolded with surgical precision.
During Siddharta’s last bars, the lads and men of Španski borci minimalistically took over the left side of the stage – the backing band of the show’s living monument and of the man who actually opened it all, who kicked off the season of hunting for the perfect version of unplugged music. Pero Lovšin, the elder statesman of Slovenian punk, the lead throat of Pankrti, then Sokoli, and then his own master, boss, or whatever we want to call it, has always been a synonym for partying, for fun, but not for precision and sensuality. Lovšin’s rejuvenated backing crew, made up of Simon Cukljati and Rok Pogačnik on guitars, Rihard Zadravec on accordion and Perot’s »comrade-in-arms from the French Revolution of way back in 1848« Džimi Džej, this time equipped with a tarabuka, kicked off their set with a country take on Vitezov obložene mize, Neko glupo nedeljo. »If you gotta fight, strike back / if you gotta stay calm, empty your glass …« Pero rasps sweatily, seated on a chair, and Španski borci, in the manner of playing songs around a campfire, don’t wake the crowd up all that well. The chemistry between the members is missing, which makes Lovšin look like an aging bluesman, a rocker playing somebody else’s tunes. Things get a lot livelier with Sodn dan, which announces the end of everything, and with its vision of a destroyed Ljubljana, the Sokoli song from the album Satan je blazn zmatran, from the ancient year of 1992, unfolds as a nostalgic memory and a call for more radical change in the state we’ve been rotting in for the last few years. That a thousand people really did fill Kino Šiška starts to show in a somewhat stronger applause and a reserved joining-in on the chorus »Just like you should for Judgment Day«, while Španski borci take their slightly extended set solidly to a big finale. There was no real peak this time, but two strong aces had already hit the table, and I was really curious what would follow.
That Slovenes, besides Smolar, Pengov, Mlakar, conditionally Kreslin and Šifrer, really do have solid singer-songwriter muscle and potency was proven by the poetically strong and fired-up Boštjan Narat, by stepping out of band spheres like Katalena, S Filtrom and similar eclectic toying with the limits of the allowed. A man who, beneath the look of a calm, gallant intellectual, hides a pile of metaphor-drenched anger. Strah je odveč is the title of the album from which we fly into deeper depths of sensuality and colorful caressing by Narat’s lovely baritone. CDG 14.45 pours into the ears from the stage a dose of a captured moment at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle airport, an airport named after the French president who, in the late autumn of his life, once wrote »the more I get to know people, the more I like dogs«. A gentle guitar, the muted pizzicato of the orchestra’s string section in the background, and Narat, in a manner of total relaxation, singing an ode to the body, love, alienation, parting, emptiness, the egocentrism of relationships, fears that are about to croak, glassy memories and impressions of passion. Narat is fluid and flowing, sensitive, metaphorically rich, contemplative, though it’s true that after the guitar picking fades out, which for a moment recalls Metallica’s One, the crowd doesn’t greet perfection as loudly as it would something better known from the radio. Lukewarm applause brings Narat’s outstanding stage performance to a close with the cynical jazzy beauty of Zdi se, a song from the album Konec sveta pride vedno nenapovedano. The full orchestration works strikingly as the young singer-songwriter sings about yet another lost love that never happened, the story of yet another unfulfilled acquaintance and romance. A lovely tale of leaving a date that only one party showed up to sounds like an address to Hope, Happiness, the Future, or, more profanely, to that unknown comely girl and perfect Love. A gorgeous cool-down of passions gives the live show a dreamier touch.
After the dreaminess, it’s time for a bit of humor, buffoonery, a pick-me-up and direct provocation the avant-garde way. People get everything, right? Sure they do! That’s why I love Zmelkoow so much, the Primorska bearers of Monty Python-style humor and intellectuals of brutally honest cynicism. The challenge the coastal jesters set themselves this time was above standard. Visually too, since in times of recession and scarcity they put on their best, literally golden clothes and took the left side of the stage. In the song that was supposed to weave, in ten minutes, a story about the revolutionary spirit and effectiveness of Slovenian youth and subversives, there was a lovely dose of sharper humor. »The protests went to the hypermarket, which we’ll say a bit more about later. The zombies went to hypermarkets too, so things have basically just moved – but it goes on,« Goga began the concert narrative in his own style. »We’re going to sing a new tune called Pussy revolucija. Before that we’ll sing Revolution Nine, and after it a tune with no title, but it’s a recognizable enough mix of two songs that it doesn’t need one,« the band’s lead throat prepares the crowd for a shock, and Longyka starts a ten-minute countdown, after which the coastal jokers could be literally unplugged, quips the evening’s host. That Zmelkoow always have something fresh in the bag and don’t plan to peddle nostalgia this time, Nuša, Žare, Goga and Aleš proved with a practical demonstration of Dadaist creativity. The arrhythmic intro was a real sonic provocation, during which Goga every so often growls into the mic: »Number five … Number five … Number twelve …«, and after a third of the time has elapsed, a clearer critique of the system continues with biting cynicism at the expense of all the revolutionaries who, instead of fighting for their cause in front of parliament and the other institutions, succumb to the zombie call to visit hypermarkets, because there are sales on. Are we sold souls, or better yet – the revolution failed, Zmelkoow add in their own way, and after that realization comes a literal ascension with a gorgeous fusion of Led Zeppelin and their Stairway To Heaven with Kekec’s song. Good humor is the best, right? And without orchestral backing, the stage provocateurs close the evening with a serene song and a question we have to answer ourselves, though we so often like to tune it out: »What is the little titmouse singing to me?« Even the birds are singing that we’re in … So – smile on your lips and everything will be OK, right?
Vse je OK is also the title of the new album by the young wordy rap ace Rok Trkaj, who this time unplugged his sampled samples and matrices and, instead of a DJ, invited his live band onto the stage alongside the orchestra’s strings. The lineup: Jani Hace on bass (yep, Siddharta’s current bassist …), Janez Gabrič on drums, Teo Kolori on guitar, and Denis Horvat on concert piano. I don’t see saxophonist Lovro Ravbar on stage, and no backing vocalists either, but Trkaj, potent and without restraint, sails with the song Prvič from the album Rapostoli, which celebrates its fifth anniversary this year, into a flowing stream of free rhyme, a pouring out of all the things we young people do for the first time at some point. The free freestyle is metrically precise this time, and with the funky groove of the backing band, they blend nicely into the background of layers of rich orchestration. It all works naturally, effortlessly and richly, and with an avalanche of well-woven Slovenian words we can surrender ourselves more actively to some more energetic swaying. On the song Živim zato the young Ljubljana native relaxes completely, opens all the registers, and by the principle of unpredictability and spontaneity – as much as a live show allows – gives himself over to the beatbox accompaniment of Jan Šilc, a member of A-Kamel and Oktet 9. Trkaj does his job with distinction, and the backing band does too, so the wordy avalanche of thoughts and flashes made a real contrast to the otherwise more organic music, and in the competitive duel Trkaj gains a few inches’ lead over his »rivals« in the battle for the title of »Winner of the Izštekani evening«. The laurel for that is, of course, an oral message that the unintoxicated concertgoers may carry out into the world.
What came next was significantly more contrasting and extreme, at least on the artistic side. Aphra Tesla is an exceptional Slovenian musician who describes herself as a true operating system, as a valve for her lyrics and poetry to seep out, and ever since the sounds of the outstanding album Home In The Zone first anointed my ears, I couldn’t wait for this act of the concert. This time I can truly, justifiably use the words controversial, above-standard and extravagant in the same sentence, because the minimalist approach of just two performers laid the soul of Aphra’s music bare to the bone: a perfect weave of the singer’s exceptional, colorful vocals, which unite in one person the gracefulness of Josipa Lisac and the jazzy ring of the divas of the golden twenties of the last century, while under a thick layer of musical juice the shadows of Rimbaud sneak into the world, shaking hands with the melodic meter of Jim Morrison (at least I feel something fateful, sharp and painful, fatal throughout). An additional factor of pleasure was woven by the flowing jazz compendium of meter and exceptional musical knowledge served up by the up-and-coming talent of Slovenian jazz, the potent Marko Črnčec, and after Pojke Indiani and the sensitively sung Raven I have to admit that the pearls of excellence were this time served to people who didn’t deserve them. I won’t waste words on concert culture, because of the primitives and vulgarians who, during a performance demanding a bit more attention and concentration, sprayed tasteless remarks, disrupted the stage rhythm with loud conversations and ruined the perfect enjoyment for those of us who came to a concert to listen to music, not to idiotic stories about things that have nothing to do with Izštekani. The pearls were served to swine this time, if I may be a little extreme. A vocal, minimalist touch of intense heartfelt emotion and transcendent lyrics that can shake you to the very center of your heart was served to a rabble that always looks for the instant, obvious hit. Aging rockers, posers, students with extended perpetual-student status, rich kids and empty-headed poor souls fall for something more melodic and instantly gratifying, and sadly a pathetic horde of the thirsty needlessly emptied the hall to quench their parched throats. Aphra Tesla was the overlooked treasure of the evening, for which she deserves, at least from my side, sincere praise for professionalism, dignity and the high quality of her performance, and a written standing ovation, which artistry of such high quality also deserves!
Slovenia, on the other hand, has an inflation of tides, because besides the band Tide there is also The Tide. Which came first and which is better is of course a matter of taste, and it’s not worth arguing about. Personally I prefer neither, but I have to admit that The Tide rose fully to the stage task in front of a packed hall: shedding all ballast and, with one of many touches along the way, edging toward touchdown on their new studio album Landings. It’s about directness and a purity with which Longyka, in his own way, cleanses the poisoned organisms of bands that occasionally stray from their (true) path. The Tide also found their salvation back in 2007 in the eco-cleansing of Izštekani, and singer Tomaž Štular and the company from The Tide reap thunderous applause just for walking on stage. The album Landings will reportedly see the light of day in March next year, and Kino Šiška gets the premiere performance of Little Love Pretender, which, instead of loud ambient textures and the band’s alternative approach, is this time marked by the minimalism of piano, bass and vocals, with passion breathed in by a rich layer of orchestral backing. The Tide want to be more than just an alternative band, and the pompous sound picture conjures up images of big stages, glittering lights, a sea of flashes, even though I think star glitter and lust for fame are overrated, and The Tide should have something more with which the wide world would be easier to conquer. Not even the stage guest appearance of Tabu singer Tina Marinšek, who sings the song Carry On in a duet with Štular, drives me to change my mind. Longyka also devotes a bit of attention to the fact that Tabu, as one of the stronger stars in the sky of the Slovenian pop scene (whatever that means), are about to completely change their music, their repertoire, and in June next year Slovenia will get Tabu and the RTV Slovenija Symphony at Križanke. Yet another »highlight of the year«, then …
I myself was waiting for a stage return to rock’n’roll times and the arrival of the phalanx of Res Nullius, who a few days ago announced online that they were finally switching off the amps, the respirators on the ailing patient called Res Nullius. The reasons are noble – in the name of a lack of creativity and lust for creating, the decision is consensual and reportedly final. This time, though, something new, rarely heard and seen was in the offing. »When we were talking about tonight, there was also a big question: will it or won’t it happen. Ten days ago it was a go. Then they said it’d be an electric guitar and an amp, but the arrangements would be changed. Yesterday at noon they let us know: ‘Res Nullius are bringing an acoustic guitar!’« the host of the evening announces the arrival of the Velenje veterans. Boštjan Časl on bass, Janez Marin behind the drums, Boštjen Senegačnik strapped with an acoustic and, in the foreground, the never-calm Zoran Benčič shared the stage this time with one of the best, if not the best, Slovenian blues harmonica players, Damir Jazbec – Jimmy. The latter left his exceptional mark on the work of Mestni postopači, in B.A.N.G., got woven into the veil of Jezdeci of vast dimensions, and built the mighty reputation of one of the most sensitive and incisive students of Joey Frisco on this side of the Alps. Res Nullius showed the Ljubljana crowd a somewhat different face from the usual one. In an outstanding blues-rock performance of total sonic minimalism, they threw away all that fury, eruptive energy, electrified danger and looming self-destructive charge that made every one of their gigs I’d attended until now feel like an adrenaline ride down the rapids of a necrotic river of emotions, or a blind descent, or a leap into the dark unknown. This time the pair of songs Krvavi kolaž and Zdravo je biti divji was somehow reined in, tamed, restrained and atypical for this organic foursome of Velenje garage artists of pure rock’n’roll. Seni and Zoki were laconic and gloomy, Boštjan and Janez almost absent, and the only one giving more than 200% of stage energy was the exceptional Jimmy. Res Nullius without distorted electric guitars are like a doughnut without jam – something’s simply missing. Mainly the energy and the much-needed kick that aged, almost benign acoustics can’t and couldn’t deliver. Something is rotten in the state of Carniola, and the bitterness this time came in the form of an anemic, not particularly shattering or memorable performance, which simply won’t set a new milestone of excellence for Nullius. Or are we talking about a more bitter act of history and circumstance? Partly this is down to the almost definitive, irrevocable resignation statement from all the band’s founding members that after a quarter century of existence it’s time to call it off, an embargo on the sell-off of the band’s family silver, and a step into something else, not necessarily better. It may be fatalism or a calculated marketing move, but the fact is that only time will answer the guessing, since when Zoki was hinted that a collapse, the disintegration of Res Nullius, was at the door, he replied ambiguously that December is still the month of Res Nullius, and then they’ll see where the story and the further saga unfold.
The creative threads, though, are unraveling nicely in the superstar alliance that, under the umbrella name Werefox, unites people from Psycho-Path, Bekko, Sphericube and Lollobrigida. The common denominator this time is total power-pop, a bodybuilt alternative peak of the Slovenian mainstream that is more than an obscure, light-hearted inclination to complete sugariness. Werefox are a killer beast with a soft heart, an exceptional musical colossus built on the poisonous guitar lines of the outstanding Sašo Benko – Beko, joined without a hint of weakness by youngsters with style: bassist Manuel Hahn, hard-hitting rhythmist David Halb behind the drums, and the femme fatale of the Slovenian alternative world, the exceptional Melee. This time the return to the home of the contemplative and mystically juicy album I Am Memory is somewhat altered. The Prekmurje avant-garde pop-oid alternatives decided on a new élan for the songs, and Mirko Lazer, with the arranger’s baton, helped thoroughly. Into the solid structures of March Of The Finest, which was still searching for the right calibrated note, and with the step into the spheres of Redneck Genious Story, a story about a man who decides to eat his car, he wove a thoroughly sophisticated note of perfect completion and improved sheen. Werefox become the moderators of the basic schematic in their own story, and the orchestra gives the schematic design of country rock alternative the much-needed flesh of complete pompousness and newly discovered punch. The dramatic finale led to total ecstasy, followed by roaring applause, and so Werefox also get a sonic confirmation that this is really more than mere coincidence and just two superb songs. I think in the future we’ll hear something more than a repeat of excellence. The boys and the young woman have enough mojo to build the story further and refine it!
The countdown to the end wasn’t over yet, because after the switch to the number of twenty songs for twenty years of existence, a completely different band took the stage instead of Niet, one that breached the pledge of pure numerics of 20 years of Izštekani and served up a new dose of provocativeness. The quintet Flirrt, saddled with a forced extra letter R in the name under which they recorded three albums (Frizerski salon, Modroplavo and Univerzum), round out the Horizont story with this year’s Lajf. The group, made up of otherwise solid musicians – Peter Vdovč on keyboards, Toni Habula behind the drums, Borut Velušček on bass, David Stritar on guitar and Rok Lunaček on mic and guitar – was never in the sphere of total musical peaks, but with their lovely acoustic rebel song Izštekani they offer a good critique and assessment of the current state of society and the times. To survive these crazy times, we have to know how to simply unplug now and then, and the guys hope the state won’t introduce some new tax to patch the dismal budget hole – say, on unpluggedness. They’ve stolen everything from us – our dreams, our future and our hope for a better tomorrow – and Rok and company put it nicely into a direct, not-at-all-mincing-words song of set-to-music discontent and sarcasm.
The closing act was also delivered in the spirit of rebellion and punk revolution, in a thoroughly star-like manner, as the stage was taken by former nonconformists, today legendarily celebrated stars of the urban revolution of anarchist resistance – the exceptional Niet. That punkness works with the noise switched off completely is proven, beautifully, by guitarist Igro Dernovšek, Janez Brezigar on bass, Robert Likar on second guitar, Tomaž Bergant behind the drums and the potent orator Borut Marolt (let’s finally admit out loud that the guy is more than just a stand-in for the late Habič!), also with the help of the symphony and members of the Rokovnjači cast. Balada za obečence is a Baudelairean vignette, a social critique of the system, a big »Niet!« to usurpation and capitalist enslavement, to the rape of a nation. The choir of the Rokovnjači cast (on stage, among others, stands the evening’s other rapper, who this time sings more in tune, Murat’s companion Jose) adds a note of greater intensity, which, alongside the compact sounds of Niet and the orchestra, gets a third dimension of choral harmony. A more cathartic finale than Ruski vohun, whose lungs and throats were supplied by the thousand-headed crowd in the Cathedral, neither Niet nor Izštekani could have wished for. The lovely energetic finale was topped off with roaring applause, on which the continuation depended, as did the last act of an almost three-hour – well, two-and-a-half-hour for sure – birthday celebration of a show with meaning. Then came a dramatic finale with fireworks, when besides Niet the stage was first joined by the frontman of Dan D, Tomislav Jovanović – Tokac, who reaps a big ovation with his interpretation of the chorus of Lep dan za smrt. »The sun was shining / and the sirens were wailing. / The sky was blue, / almost without a cloud. / Under the light-yellow sun / we ran down the road, / when the first flash embraced us, / we fell. / And yet it was such a beautiful day, / too beautiful for death,« it echoes under the vaults of Kino Šiška, and then Tomi M. comes on stage too, lies down by the monitors and recites: »You lay in blood, / amid hunting air and fire. / You lay under the sun, / glowing, red, unreal / In the middle of the horizon, / wrapped in smoke. / In the middle of the first day / of war, war …« and the hall drowns out the already loud expression of ecstasy, which outgrows the stasis of an evening that unfolded so refined, yet subordinate to the sign that the event was live on air, caught among the waves of Val 202, in the quadrant of total unpluggedness …
The jubilee event thus earned its deserved place in the history of the show Izštekani, and the whole thing was subordinated to an almost rococo feeling of overfullness, richness, glitter and exhibitionism of total power, which could roar entirely on acoustic lungs. The whole sounded orderly, planned, well thought out and gallant. With minor fixes, mainly reprogramming people of shallow taste, the story could have been perfect and at an even higher level, but you won’t hear any condemnation from me this time, since the ending was good, and then all was good, right? After all the lights went completely off, in the bowels of the Cathedral, that shrine of concert pleasure, came a gradual switch-off, an exit, an unplugging in the foyer in front of the hall. In the company of the best, the loudest, the mightiest, in the company of the consecrated, enlightened and all-knowing – and for the more modest, the feeling sufficed that there had been plenty of good on offer to dream about the next 20 years, the next organic leaps into a more acoustic spectrum of music, the next crossings of the line between subversion and acceptability the Jure Longyka way. What more could you wish for from an evening of sweet delicacies of Slovenian music? Or could you? Maybe a Miladojka Youneed, a Demolition Group or similar heavyweights, which will for now remain unfulfilled wet dreams until next time. Maybe for a big 30 years, which is only 10 years away? Maybe … We’ll see …
Setlist
1. Klinik (Siddharta)
2. Novi svet (Keaziree) (Siddharta)
3. Neko glupo nedeljo (Peter Lovšin)
4. Sodni dan (Peter Lovšin)
5. CDG 14.45 (Narat)
6. Zdi se (Narat)
7. “10 minutni digitalni ajmoht skladb” (Zmelkoow)
8. Prvič (Trkaj)
9. Žvim zato (Trkaj)
10. Pojke Indiana (Aphra Tesla)
11. Raven (Aphra Tesla)
12. Little Love Pretender (The Tide)
13. Carry On (The Tide and Tina Marinšek)
14. Krvavi kolaž (Res Nullius)
15. Zdravo je biti divji (Res Nullius)
16. March of the Finest (Werefox)
17. The Redneck Genius Story (Werefox)
18. Izšekani (Flirrt)
19. Balada za obešence (Niet)
20. Ruski vohun (Niet)
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21. Lep dan za smrt (Niet, Tokac and Tomi M.)
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