Imagine a band of twenty wild musicians in a procession. Imagine them coming down a dark alley on a summers night.
With lots of people on balconies and against the walls to let them by.
To noisily enter a square, nearly marching, one of those squares with the walls drenched in the moonlight of a Julys full moon.
Imagine the furtive looks between them as, holding hands they form a circle to keep the greedy and hungry crowd at bay.
And they haven’t even began.
Imagine a sudden silence and the trumpets blowing, while a girl holding batons with flaming ends, spreads the smell of kerosene and flames to keep the onlookers away as if they were hungry wolves.
In the center sits Bubo, the oldest, keeping time he taps his foot patiently, gently, and watches the crowd knowingly. He is already sweaty and tired, in a short while the square will no longer be the same.One square, one uproar.
All of a sudden a trumpet solo, and then all together searching for a riot of notes.
And the crowd hit with a shiver, relax and enjoy.
Shouts with a touch of drunkenness, people pushing, unleash and wish to make love to the sax and burn in the fire.The sax turns and sends them away scolding them with notes.Low and sensual, curvy like the flesh of a bed.
A man with a red rimmed black hat stands in the middle, giving orders and while spitting fire up to the sky, the music bursts out.
This is Zastava Orkestar
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