Back when Balkan Beats was all the hype and each weekend there were at least two of three Balkan parties in Berlin, I used to follow Jugotonka from Tacheles, to RAW Temple, SO36, Kaffee Burger and Super Molly.
She was one of my favorite DJs in Berlin, different from all the rest of the Balkan DJs because she wasn’t shy of playing turbo-folk, the pop-folk mélange that came out of Belgrade starting in the nineties, and which most Balkan DJs passed off snobbishly as pure bad taste and kitsch.
Jugotonka didn’t come across as the typical turbo-folk tussi. She didn’t put much stock in make-up and fake glamour, but rather cultivated an alternative look that was more Berlin than Balkans, featuring ska hats, skull-and- bones bandanas, high, lace-up military boots, ripped stockings. She had a kind of punk look that gave her a hard time in Croatia, where bus drivers would refuse to let her on the bus because of the way she dressed.
Jugotonka had left Croatia because of the war and came to Berlin, which was a kind of paradise of freedom for ex-Yugos back in the day. She worked in punk bars and cafes, was involved in the alternative scene, squatted houses, fought the police, demonstrated against Nazis.
Jugotonka told me stories about tousles with the police in squatted houses. Once she went to meet Croatian friends at an old Eckkneipein Neukölln. Just come back from Croatia, some of the German barflies started shouting “Ausländer raus!” at Kristina and her friends. Then one of the racist louts punched Kristina in the face, breaking her nose. She had to go to the hospital to get it fixed, and later
when she went back to the bar with the police no one could remember a thing.
Nowadays there has been some let-up in the Balkan hype that peaked somewhere around 2010. Jugotonka has since started to put together home-made speaker-bags bearing the label “Canta Bag”, the perfect accoutrement for a summer day lounging around one of Berlin’s many parks.
“I don’t earn very much,” says Jugotonka. “Of course, as a famous artist and DJ with my own signature I could earn more. And with a CD to boot. But that’s not my style, to strike it rich as an artist. I want to support other people. If I have more, then I can better help other people.”
It was Jugotonka who sent me an invitation to see Džej at Haus Ungarn one day in April. Džej was off the radar for all but a hard-core Yugo crowd. A bald, gnomic, funny little Gypsy folk crooner from Belgrade, who may or may not be known as the Serbian James Brown, for Germans he was an unknown quantity, while for people in-the-know he was legende and kralj – king.
Just come in from the airport, Džej wasn’t feeling up to par and asked for a stiff drink. Someone brought him a generous tall glass brimming full of vodka from the bar and he was good to go, rambling on in an almost indecipherable Gypsy Belgrade Serbian for my benefit while Jugotonka translated.
Džej told me about growing up in downtown Belgrade, his big hit, Sexy Ritam in 1993, his best show – in Belgrade, in 1992, when he sang in front of 30,000 people, some of whom came from surrounding villages on foot; his influences, which were as various as James Brown, AC/DC, Toma Zdravković, Oliver Dragojević, Kemal Monteno and Maharem Serbezovski – names that will mean nothing to someone who is not from Yugoslavia – and Serbian king of the Gypsies, Šaban Bajramović whom he described as having a voice like Louis Armstrong.
Asked if it was possible for Americans to appreciate his music, Džej spoke about the time when he made it to America, dodged security in New York and snuck up to Puff Daddy, who asked Džej if he was a Gypsy, and when Džej answered in the affirmative, Puff Daddy said to him. “You are my man!”
It was time to play. Džej downed his vodka and hit the floor together with a keyboarder, who played in a trancy style full of Oriental trills and quaverings. The crowd was small but adoring. There was flashy clique of ex-Yugos, who, all got up in showy clothes and glitzy finery, threw their hands up in the air theatrically, knelt before their idol, bowing down before him and plastering Džej’s sweaty, bald head with small denomination bills, or baksheesh.
At the very front Jugotonka danced Oriental style, taking off her Gypsy scarf and shaking her damp hair over her face. The big hit with Džej that night, however, was yours truly. Evidently Džejdidn’t have many Americans among his fans. Džej called out to me from the stage, introducing me round to the crowd, and when he came down off the stage and mingled with the audience he embraced me and we traded sweaty kisses.
In the end, the night was a total flop. Only around thirty people had shown up and everyone had gone home broke. Jugotonka had lost a jacket with her handy and phone. Only Džej had come out on top, pocketing his money and flying back to Belgrade satisfied the next morning. A year later Džej was dead. Alohol, cigarettes and long nights had done him in. He was 55 years old.
