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LIFE

07/10/2011
Since we do decoration and even DJ for a DJ/VJ team Smetnjak, and the crème de la crème of slovenian alter-rock scene needed someone to spice up their concerts we were asked to become rockstars for three days and three nights and TOUR THE BALKANS. That's right, we were off to the crazy Balkans where alcohol and life are cheap, somebody is always at war with somebody else and some of the women wear mustaches as a part of their womanly decorum. Not that we've seen any of them, though the ghetto bitches we were hoping to gaze at were in shorty supply too. Sadly. Anyway: The Kitsch-Nitsch mini, totally inaccurate and biased, Guide to touring the Balkans.



Well, first of all take the train. Or fly. Or even fucking walk, because the bus is definitely not the way to go. Especially if your bus has a flying meat ball for a logo. And a sad, melancholic bus driver who looked like his wife left him, his dog died and the doctor called him they need to talk in person all on the same day. While a nice atmosphere is probably essential to keeping up morale when touring, we wouldn't know that. Let us just skip the voyage to Belgrade, since there is literally no way to describe nothing apart from actually writing nothing.







We of course did all the cliches when we finally arrived to Belgrade and went to party on a riverboat. It was nice, and we finally found out where the dream sequences of Twin Peaks were shot. On the lower deck of our boat. Right next to the toilet. After consuming insane amounts of alcohol we headed back to our hotel for a compulsory photo shooting (much of the photos are from there) and tuck ourselves in by emptying the minibar. Not a very good decision, money wise.







The air in Belgrade is apparently 5% alcohol itself, so in the morning we had no hangover, and received a nice hello at the reception from Divine, who has (just as Elvis) apparently faked her/his death and now resides in Belgrade. Let us just skip the report on some easy sightseeing we did, the evening had something special planned for us: a live show at Dom Omladine, where we were to decorate the room in neon (what else is new) and bring New Beat back to life. At this time it is important to point out that smoking in Serbia is mandatory for anyone over 7 years of age. By law. So having a wild rock/rave/post-punk-nu-beat-whatever party in the only place in Belgrade where smoking is by some weird loophole forbidden is not a very bright idea. No one came. The stage bands did semi-OK with luring in the crowd, but we only managed to convince three 10 year old kids that apparently have very liberal parents, letting them witness our I am a whore VJ masterpiece. You may say we sucked, and we are a poor excuse for party organizers, but we blame others. Still, our sadness melted away the very instance the boy did his breakdance moves, god bless his quick feet!



Of course we would not let a small thing like that keep us down so a cold at first but quickly overwhelmed with the charming nonsense that leaves our mouths and we call conversation taxi driver drove us to KC Grad, where apparently all the people who did not come to our party went. And they all brought their friends with them. Thanks to some VIP treatment (yeah, right) we managed to sneak in and danced our asses off to some pussy-hipster-indie rock and called it a night.

How do we rank Belgrade? Let us get serious here for just a moment and point out that a Gay pride parade has been cancelled right the weekend we were there due to the fact that there isn't enough police in the whole goddamn country to protect it against the bashers who decided to torch Belgrade if the Parade was actually to take place. Didn't hurt us really, we put on our camouflage blue jeans instead of our pink women chinos, but until Serbia upgrades its firmware to the latest release its full potential as a party capital of Europe will be lost. Apart from that, all you cheap booze, heart attack food, smoke your lungs out lovers are highly recommended to visit this otherwise great party metropolis of the bloody Balkans.





And that is not something we can say about Bosnia and Sarajevo, so we will keep this part short and hateful. Or at least hateful. The most impressive part of Bosnia is the Tuzla thermonuclear power plant (OK it's not really nuclear, but you know, you have to embellish something, otherwise you will say we have absolutely nothing nice to say about Bosnia). So how does the rest of it look like? The trip from Belgrade to Sarajevo takes forever and is putting it mildly, bizarre. I can't explain the architecture, we don't read books and our thesaurus (we just looked that word up) is limited at best, so we will just stick with bizarre. Not in a good Rocky Horror Picture Show way bizarre, more in a Deliverance set in a Wall Mart style bizarre. The city of Sarajevo felt strange, not welcoming, poor in every sense of the word. While some of you spiritual new age freaks might find the very small amount of vintage ethno old-school Sarajevo appealing, we felt out of place. We didn't fell better than the people there, just different I guess. There was a mist of having nothing to loose in the air. And complacency with what you've been dealt with and the supposed freedom of letting go in the stream is not our thing. Maybe we are spoiled, but Bosnia is fucking depressing. They did have a TV show, that was filming a guy in the radio booth saying its the only radio show you can also watch. Having that to lift up our moods we headed to the Kriterion, a really nice art cinema/club where part two of the Slovenia/Serbia/Bosnia cultural exchange was to take place. The people there were great, it was full, we were just starting to have some wild fun, when we walked to the nearby ATM machine and a bunch of guys stopped the car in the middle of the road only to yell: Hey faggots and making kissing noises at us. True story. We drank more alcohol, but somehow and for the first time in our lives alcohol was just not the answer. Feeling happy we still have nice looking faces and a fully functioning spine we drove back to the hotel and wished we were in Texas or some other nice place like that. Kitsch-Nitsch official Bosnia and Sarajevo rank: epic fail. Go west. Or East. Just get the fuck out of there.





This concludes our learned review. All seeking for intelligent thought are most likely disappointed as are those who looked forward to us sharing spicy sexual stories that were taking place with the many groupies in our hotel rooms after we called it a night. Sorry for rambling at such length, but we don't get around that much (and who would want to invite a bunch of cranky people like us anyway).