Belgrade Rockers

Presing

BELGRADE ? Bulevar Revolucije ("Revolution Boulevard") is one of Belgrade's main drags. Part of its charm is that it remains stubbornly impervious to municipal attempts to rename it something less reminiscent of Marshal Tito?in this case, "Bulevar Kralja Aleksandra," or "King Alexander's Boulevard." (Only recently, for instance, have Belgraders yielded to the prosaic renaming of "Proletarian Brigade Street" as "Crown Street.")

Belgrade's best rock band, Presing, rehearses just off Bulevar Revolucije, wedging themselves and their instruments into a tiny Tito-era bomb shelter you can rent by the hour. When I came to Belgrade on a German Marshall Fund of the United States Journalism Fellowship to write about post-Milosevic rock, Presing was at the top of my list of bands to see. Since they didn't have any gigs scheduled during my visit, I settled for a rehearsal.

Presing is no-nonsense band, and the clock's ticking, so they set up and rev into songs from their latest album, 600 nebo ("6th Heaven"). Their angular and aggressive sound?compacting funk and country-rock into a fierce guitar-driven rock?is mighty powerful on disc. In a space this small, it's overwhelming.

It's a sound that kicks the pants off the recycle-rock of the Strokes, the Vines and the White Stripes, just to name a few. Singer and lyricist Zoran Radovic's voice leaps from growls to yelps to yearning falsettos?sometimes in mid-song. Vladimir Markovic's guitar unleashes power chords that suddenly shatter into sharp fragments until the whirlwind of Vladislav Rac's bass and Miladin Radivojevic's drums gathers them up again. You can hear bits of the melodic era of the Fall (Our Nation's Saving Grace through Frenz Experiment), some Nick Cave, some Neil Young?and even some P-Funk via Kraftwerk.

Near the end of the rehearsal, Presing whips into "Ritam U Kojem Stojis" ("Rhythm That You Stay In") ?the song that kicks off 600 nebo. There isn't a song that captures Serbia's paranoia and bitterness under the regime of Slobodan Milosevic better than "Ritam." Its menacing bursts of guitar and bass force Radovic to bark out his lyrics ("Ti si prevaren/Ti si zatvoren"?"Now you're swindled/Now you're locked down") about Belgrade's perils and dolor in that dark time.

The 1990s were no decade to be a young man in Serbia. Sure, there was the poverty wrought by sanctions and the eradication of a burgeoning rock scene by the obscenity of "turbofolk"?the kitschy amalgam of folk music and techno that celebrated the vulgar materialism of Belgrade's criminal class. But everyone in Serbia save the gangsters and warlords endured that. Young men in Belgrade and elsewhere had an agonizing choice to make?dodge the universal draft imposed in that time or fight in wars of ethnic cleansing in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo.

When I sit down with Markovic and Radovic in a cafe after the rehearsal, they humor my questions about songwriting and influences. (The country/funk thing, for instance, came about because alt-country fan Markovic and funk aficionado Radovic tortured each other with their favorite records.) But they turn passionate and eloquent when asked about the political atmosphere that subtly suffuses much of 600 nebo.

"I feel what's happening in the air all the time," Radovic says, "and it's reflected in my poetry."

Take "Zbogom, Kamikaze" ("Farewell, Kamikaze")?a slashing squonk of a song that takes the propaganda broadcast to young Serbs to fight in Croatia in 1991 as its theme. "The message at the time was that you are not a real Serb if you don't go," says Radovic. "All of Europe was living a normal life, and we were faced with this absurd dilemma. Are you a real man or not? Are you going to let them slaughter your compatriots? It was the worst possible temptation laid in front of us, but not many people yielded to it. So the song was my answer to those who did go. 'Farewell, Kamikaze! Go there?and farewell.'"

A number that Radovic and Markovic both like to throw around is eight percent?the number of young men in Belgrade who responded to the draft in that era. The other 92 percent of young men in Belgrade dodged the cops in the capital or went into self-imposed exile. It's a time that Markovic?who is also an excellent writer?captures perfectly in his memoir, King of Mosquitoes, which will be published later this year in Holland by Paper Tiger Press.

King of Mosquitoes skillfully relates Markovic and Presing's story?including the band's 1990 inception and an early success cut short by the war and Serbia's subsequent spiral downward. It's a tale of hitchhiking, girls, bad luck and even worse timing. (Presing's legendary first album, for instance, was released by a Croatian label at the onset of Serbia's war with Croatia.) It's also shot through with a true eye for detail, as Markovic's description of coming home to Belgrade in 1990 illustrates:

Rub my eyes. Extend my arms. Gray buildings. Dirty streets. Ramones on the radio. Belgrade.

Belgrade is definitely not a girl you fall in love with at first sight, but the more you get to know her, the more you are embraced by her?and suddenly you realize you love her. She has no fancy clothes and even less make-up. But her charms are hidden in some other gifts.

"Separatists from all the countries?unite!" was the first graffiti I saw. This old pile of bricks and stones still hasn't lost its wittiness. Built as a gateway between East and West, Belgrade?Singidunum, Alba Graeca, Griechich Weisenburg, Nandor Fehervar, Dar Ul Jihad, or whatever its temporary landlords called it?was an irresistible snack to every army that passed by it. Today, it has none of the magnificent architecture shown on its medieval copper carvings; through its long history, it has suffered more than thirty major destructions and burnings. However, there is an indestructible masterpiece of non-material architecture that it has preserved?its spirit, unique sense of humor, irony and wit, cultivated over at least 2500 years of life as a city. All the ethnicities that once lived here have left traces reflected in that spirit?Celts, Sarmats, Romans, Greeks, Serbs, Hungarians, Germans, Turks, Armenians, Jews, Tzintzars.

Presing survived the wars and regrouped to record 600 nebo in 1999. After squabbling with one record company, they finally released it on Square Records this year to rapturous critical acclaim. (Belgrade's Reporter magazine called it "the most important artifact of Serbian culture in the past year.") But Presing's uneasy truths and crashing guitars piss in the winds of escapist clubbing culture that have blown through Belgrade since Milosevic fell?and the print raves and some radio play haven't helped its sales.

"The so-called independent media in Serbia used to play plenty of alternative rock music and even rebel punk rock and rap while we all fought against the previous regime," observes Markovic. "But now they've lost their edge, and they play neutral lullabies most of the time."

Yet there is a great deal of the Belgrade spirit that Markovic describes in King of Mosquitoes that lives on in Presing's music. Take "U Svome Pesku" ("In My Own Swallowing Sand"), which finds Radovic singing "Ja zelim da vidim" ("I want to live") as the guitar and rhythm section crash down around his voice. It's a bold affirmation in the face of death and darkness.

Presing is ample proof of the axiom that there is no justice in rock 'n' roll. If rock still possesses the power to summon up and exorcise demons, 600 nebo is the only proof of it I've heard in years. It's extraordinary music made under conditions of extreme duress?and with little or no hope of success. It deserves a much better fate than this.