“World music?” I scoffed, already trying to sound like the cynical teenager I wasn’t. “This is just our stuff.”
I stared at the screen. Track for track, bootleg for bootleg, demo for demo—it was all there. Azra into Rambo Amadeus. Bijelo Dugme into Beogradski Sindikat. She’d found it on a fan forum, remastered from someone’s grandfather’s original cassette. Ex-Yu Rock- Pop- Hip-Hop The Best Of World Music
For two years, that record was my secret education. I learned the angry poetry of Hladno Pivo and the melancholic waltz of Van Gogh . I memorized the hip-hop of Tram 11 —their slang from the streets of New Belgrade as foreign to me in Ljubljana as American gangsta rap, yet utterly familiar. I didn’t understand the war. I only understood the beat. “World music
Marko just lit a cigarette, blew a ring at the cracked ceiling, and dropped the needle. Azra into Rambo Amadeus
Then the second track starts: Jedi moju hladnu by Hladno Pivo. A girl named Amira, who lost her uncle in Vukovar, looks up. She starts bobbing her head. A boy named Srđan, whose father fought in the siege of Sarajevo, taps his foot. I hold my breath.